Hríveressë
by AEonVicious
Summary: Sauron is defeated. The time of the Elves is over. In the coming winter the last act of Elves will play itself out. Ghosts of the past will rise to once more shake the foundation of Middle Earth. Evil comes in many forms, and even the best intentions may lead to terrible ends. The King of Greenwood the Great has a choice to make. To stay, or sail.(switched to Silmarillion category)
1. Autumn

The leaves whispered in the trees, sighing with the last breaths of summer. Autumn had begun to transform the forest, setting it ablaze with vibrant reds and maroons, oranges and golds. And under the light of a full moon the lord of the Greenwood walked alone, for as of late the moon had been calling to him and his thoughts had been dark and gloomy. The time of the elves in middle earth was drawing near to it's end. Soon the choice would have to be made, whether to fade in power and diminish until only wildness and legend were left, or to vanish across the sea to lands undying and remain forever apart from Middle Earth - no longer to have a hand in it's history.

For centuries King Thranduil had known of the choice, yet it had been delayed. For hundreds of years other thoughts had occupied his mind. He had seen war, desolation, great beauty and valour. Unspeakable pain and suffering and renewal above it all. There had been little thought given to the eventual end of his reign in the East.

Yet; now the time of choice grew near and the king found himself utterly unprepared for it. Worse yet, he knew not how his son might choose. The life of fading, or of exile from middle earth. Which would he choose? But he could not ask him, for he had not the courage.

And so Thranduil walked often alone under the moon, it's pure light soothing his weary spirit. But the leaves continued to change and the winds began to grow cool. The days became short and the long nights began, filled with stars and the shining flower of the heavens in it's glory.

And old evils that had long been suppressed began to awaken in the darkness...

* * *

><p>King Thranduil for his part breathed deeply of the morning air and relished the warmth of his tea, cupping it in his hands and occasionally tapping the porcelain with his rings for the sound it made even as he listened to the low continuous voice of his chief advisor - a Silvan with a little more grace than his parentage would suggest. Idhrenir had been grateful for the gift which had helped him greatly in winning a place at the Kings side. And in all Eryn Lasgalen there was none save Legolas who Thranduil trusted more. Idhrenir continued on with a voice as unhurried as the mountains, his keen amber eyes calm. Of whether he realized or not that his master was no longer listening he made no indication.<p>

When Anar had risen to her full height Thranduil and his council took their noon meal in the great hall. Yet; though he had been expecting to see his son, Legolas was not there.

"The chief warden on duty today tells me he left to go riding with a small company. He should be back shortly."

Thranduil did his best not to appear thwarted. "Of course. It is a beautiful day - only, tell me as soon as he returns."

When the noon meal was finished the master of the Greenwood went for a walk under the towering stone boughs of his hall. The gleam of polished cavern stone was so cunningly carved that one would think they were walking in a great forest of glimmering white trees were it not for the touch of firm rock beneath their fingertips. Thranduil felt a deep love for these stone-hewn caverns that he suspected might be a little...un-elvish...at times. Yet he felt no remorse for this adoration and often would spend hours simply walking the marble bridges that spanned chasms above the tinkling underwater streams that echoed and laughed through the caves. It was only on those walks, as he strode under the lifted boughs of stone carved and jewel strung beech trees that he would sing songs of an elder age that he alone of his kingdom recalled. His voice lifted and echoed hauntingly in the deep of the halls numerous caverns and even those who did not know the words of old could still feel the beauty of it's pull.

'_There a light like day immortal_

_and like night of stars unclouded, shone and gleamed._  
><em>A vault of topless trees it seemed,<em>  
><em>whose trunks of carven stone there stood<em>  
><em>like towers of an enchanted wood<em>  
><em>in magic fast for ever bound,<em>  
><em>bearing a roof whose branches wound<em>  
><em>in endless tracery of green<em>  
><em>lit by some leaf-imprisoned sheen<em>  
><em>of moon and sun, and wrought of gems,<em>  
><em>and each leaf hung on golden stems.'*<em>

And though his subjects did not know the name of the song they thought it as heart-rendingly beautiful, with an ancient youth and a solemn mirth and in many ways very much like their King.

Though his voice no longer carried it, the ancient refrain continued to echo in his head. A tale of Beren and Luthien - a doom of love everlasting. And he felt a pang for just a moment, of a long-forgotten memory of a love that had been all too fleeting and yet he suspected quite unreturned. But memories seldom come alone and soon his thoughts drifted to other hurts - and one that was most deep to him.

"My lord Thranduil."

Idhrenir spoke to him, clearing the dark thoughts from his mind with his clear and calm voice. The young elf stood only a few feet behind, centered in the narrow causeway. His red-brown hair glistened in the lanterns that adorned the stone trees, shining like fine polished wood.

"My Lord, the captain of the guard has returned. He will be at the gate shortly."

Thranduil heard no more, but hurried away with his robes billowing behind him along the stone walkway. Idhrenir stepped aside and was left in a confused silence to stare after his lord in his haste. Slowly, he followed along behind toward the gate.

He must confess that the kings behavior as of late had been abnormal. However; in the years Idhrenir had served him he had come to expect a certain amount of oddness. He had been faithful at his side for centuries...ever since Dagorlad. At the thought Idhrenir's amber eyes clouded ever so slightly, remembering the pain the orcs had dealt them.

"It surely must have been only through the grace of Iluvater that we survived." He whispered.

The battle had been cruel to their people, so very cruel. Yet the worst hurt Idhrenir himself had taken at Dagorlad itself, before the Black Gates. He had been so young then and naive, and he trembled at the sight of the dark lords stronghold. Yet he desired to be faithful to his king, brave in battle, and honorable unto his death - though it may prove to be that very day.

* * *

><p><em>Thranduil as prince of Greenwood the Great had lain a hand on his shoulder. He did not say a word, yet Idhrenir was comforted. He had heard the tales, he knew that his young master had fought before Angband itself and even faced the wrath of dragons. Yes, that he had even lain eyes upon Ancálagón the Black - a beast so terrible he blotted out the sun with his wings and crushed three mountains in his death throes and spewed fire hotter than any flame Arda had ever seen save the fires of Orodruin itself. Orodruin that they now faced. Oropher, the great King - who in many years past had known prudence now showed regrettable haste. When the opportunity arose he charged the enemy, sending his forces down into the battle before Gil-Galad had given the command.<em>

_'FATHER - MY KING!' Thranduil had called out, to no avail. And so with a great spur of his horse he hurdled down the slope after his father, and right into the fray._

_A greater moment of fear Idhrenir had not yet known up until that point, as he watched the flight of Orc arrows darken the sky above them. His horse flew with surer hooves even than the princes and Thranduil was cut off by the rearing stallion - and then black rain fell on them both. It was as if in a dream that Idhrenir carried his master, searching for a horse in the carnage of battle. He found one uninjured beast nearly mad with fear and spoke soothing words in it's ear until he could convince it to carry them both across the field. Everywhere battle was thick but the Silvan ignored it - for only one thought consumed him._

_It was as if an eternity had passed before the arms of Elrond Half-Elven reached up to take the stricken prince, and even as Idhrenir fell to earth at the end of his strength he pleaded for the wellbeing of his master. He was doubly indebted to the healer for sparing them both._

* * *

><p>Striding quickly with boots making little noise on the stone walkways of the city Thranduil hurried to the gate, pulse racing. He was eager to meet the sortie as soon as they arrived.<p>

'_If I am quick I may meet them at the Esgalduin-'_

At this thought Thranduil hesitated just a moment, slowing gradually until he had come at last to full stop. The thought was wrong, though it had taken a moment to realize.

"Esgalduin? No...for that bridge was sunk long ago in Doriath...even as Beleriand did..."

Yet he could not remember the bridge now that connected the hall of caves to the forest of the Great Greenwood and soon he buried the thought and hurried on. Soon the wrought gates loomed above even his tall head, crowned with bursting boughs of shining emeralds shaped as leaves on the inside of the entryway. Through the gate he stepped into the fading warmth of the fall. For a time he stood in the great stone balcony and listened to the chirp of birds in the blazing boughs of trees, feeding on the remaining berries and calling to their mates in lovely song. The sun glinted through golden-red beechs that swayed in a soft but cool wind. All the world seemed warmed by autumns last heat.

Echoing up the path was the sound of hooves thudding dully in the earth. And then, around the corner with a sudden victorious bound came the sortie back from patrol and Thranduil felt his heart leap. A light came into his gray eyes that had long been darkened.

At the head of the formation rode a tall and proud elf on a dappled pale gray horse with a steel gray mane - Arod. Upon his back was a mighty bow and quiver, and his hair streamed in the fair wind the color of palest gold - like the reflection of the sun on water, yet also like the lightest of silver that was beginning to twine into it, like hints of mithril. The gray eyes were joyful yet wizened through battle and age. And for just a moment Thranduil forgot himself and his station, for he felt as if he were called back to the days of his youth in the great halls of Thingol.

The proud elf dismounted and smiled. "Father, we've returned."

In that moment a strange and terrible feeling overcame Thranduil. For he felt the love he had toward his son, heir to his domain and felt joy at his safe return. And yet...he had for a moment thought another's voice would be greeting him, and in his heart Thranduil knew that he longed more for a voice from the past than what stood before him now. For just a heartbeat he had wished that Beleg - whom he had thought of first - had returned, not Legolas.

As best he could Thranduil smiled, hiding the pain his own heart caused him at the realization. He felt nearly sick at the thought that his own son should take second place in his thoughts and horrified of that truth.

"Welcome Legolas...surely you must be tired. Rest, and then tell me about what you've seen on this journey. I trust all is well in the marches?"

"Never better! Not a sign of an enemy for as long as we rode - our lands are clear by all accounts of our scouts and companies. They'll put me out of work like this!" Legolas laughed at the end. Thranduil smiled, his spirit returning.

"Oh, and yet you do not worry about MY position. I _hear_ there's some young upstart trying to take it. Imagine that..."

"Not...for a good long while. I enjoy hunting Orcs in my free time, something that will be greatly hindered if I must listen to council all morning."

"And _now_ you know my sorrow!" Thranduil commented with a quick but amused smirk, leading them back through the wide door. "But council must be taken."

"But surely not until after tea? I have news for you from the forest - a messenger from Erebor."

"Is it urgent?" Thranduil asked with an unintended sharpness, his gray eyes worried and body tense.

Legolas calmed him. "Nothing to fear at least. It was good tidings and greetings and an invitation. I have returned with a letter."

"Hm." Thranduil nodded, relaxing once again. Yet he still did not feel as if he could endure even a short time alone with Legolas. He loved him dearly and the thought that the kings words might betray him weighed heavy on his heart - for it was his intention that his son should have no inkling of his inner turmoil. So Thranduil nodded and waved to Idhrenir who took the letter on his masters behalf.

"Is that so? Well, I return their greetings and I will return to this matter after other more pressing ones have been dealt with. I am sorry that I cannot join you for a quick meal, my son, I will meet you tomorrow however. The first meal should be convenient?"

Legolas nodded, a bit confused at this break with habit. "Of course. I look forward to it."

Thranduil seemed pleased as he left, speaking quickly with Idhrenir who was trying desperately to keep up. Legolas seemed less pleased as he watched his father depart and his mind turned in an effort to explain this riddle he did not have the answer to.

* * *

><p>Author Note:<p>

*Excerpt from Lay of Leithian, direct quote.


	2. Memories of Menegroth

[ 2 ]

The caverns called him again.

High above the forest realm the moon shone in white splendor, covering the land with a pale blue sheen. Songs arose in the early evening as Isil peered above the dark outline of the eastern range and lit the land surrounding the lonely mountain. Deep beneath the earth their King listened and thought, far from the light of the moon that had come to haunt his thoughts and heavy his heart. For many long hours he paced the winding causeways and thought of many things that had already faded into forgotten history. Most of all, the memories from Doriath called him. In the hours of thought he returned frequently to Doriath. There were only too few now in all of Middle Earth whose memories of those days were clear - for Elrond half-elven, though he be old by the count of men, was still a child when Beleriand stood proud above the waves. But the forests of Lothlorien were far away - too far for simple counsel.

Celeborn he felt most ready to speak with about his state of mind. When the new title for what men deemed 'Mirkwood' had been decided the Lord of Lothlorien had stayed in Thranduils halls and there they had walked the paths and reminisced about the kingdoms of old that they had known. He had known of Celeborn for all those long years, yet, only lately had he come to _know_ him. Their duties had separated them as there was not much chance for a kinsman of King Thingol and a member of the Kings Guard to meet on informal terms. And as for Thranduils personality in those days he doubted the relationship would have been friendly even if they had. Time had stilled the worse of his temper - though there were still those to whom seemed quick to anger him.

Dwarves mostly.

Here the wheels of memory turned again, and it was yet another matter in which he and Celeborn could speak long of - the treachery of Dwarves. Legolas had said something of an invitation from the Dwarves. Which meant of course a trip to Erebor. It was not the cold and the distance of the span between their realms that worried Thranduil - rather the coldness of their hosts. More that he had not survived to his age by counting on Dwarven hospitality, generosity, and mercy...

These thoughts wound around each other for many long hours still and it was late in the night when Legolas appeared down one of the side halls. But he did not see his father, instead his eyes were fixed on the goal of his search and soon he was standing beside Idhrenir. His gray eyes full of worry, he was unusually subdued in his manner. In the torchlight by the walkway his clothes shimmered silver in a way that only magnified the graying of his hair - something that had taken a long time to come to.

"Idhrenir, you are trusted by my father and often know what ails him or what thoughts are on his mind. Tell me, has he given you any reason for his mood?"

The younger elf shook his head but raised a hand for silence. "No. Yet unless you wish to ask him directly lower your voice - for the king is just ahead."

"Ah." Legolas noted, speaking in a whisper. "No, I do not wish to speak of this to him yet...for I fear I may have something to do with this strange behavior. He was cold to me at the gate and hurried away, something he has never done before."

"My young Lord," Idhrenir began in a soft, but caring tone. "The king has no quarrel with you - that much you should know already. In all your years when has he ever remained _silent_ in anger?"

Legolas hushed a sudden laugh. "You are right! I would have noticed if he were wrathful with me. But then, what is the cause of this malaise? He is not himself - he acts as if he were bewitched or is afraid of becoming bewitched."

Idhrenir shifted closer to his masters son, and the two moved ever slightly from the area. Once they were a safe distance away from any potential eavesdropping the younger elf spoke.

"I am not one to pry into the Kings affairs...yet, I have heard of the names that he whispers while watching the moon, or while pacing the long halls.

"A name? And what is this name he whispers?"

Idhrenir hesitated a moment. "My grasp of the old tongue is enough that the names at first may sound fair, but feel foul even as they are spoken. I am loathe to repeat them, but to you I will. I have heard him utter 'Isilrís, Alquanár, and more often Silimanárë.'"

And Legolas set a scowl upon his face and replied, "Are you sure these are the names? For they sound strange - they are Quenyan. Moon-rift, Swanflame, and Crystalfire you have named. Yet my father has an ancient aversion to Quenya and does not speak it willingly."

Idhrenir gave a deep sigh. "I did not know of his aversion, and if your translation of these words be true then they sound fairer than I had suspected at first, yet there is another name that is uttered most often of them all. 'Vanyaqualmë.'"

At this the elf-prince felt his spirits drop with dread and a look of great fear came into his face. Idhrenir glanced nervously from the King and back to the prince, as if the mere utterance of the word may draw Thranduils attention to them.

Legolas regained his composure. "This is the name used above all others?"

"Yes. Though I do not know what it means."

Legolas turned his gaze from the amber elf before him and regarded his father yet again, pacing lonely on the causeways of their city. One might think he was pining for something lost, for he seemed to wander without care as to where he might be journeying to. At length Legolas spoke to Idhrenir again.

"I know you are accustomed to look after my father, and for that I thank you. But I have much to think about myself this night, so I will take over the watch."

At this Idhrenir bowed low, understanding Legolas' wish. "Of course, good night."

"To you as well."

The advisor was slow in his departing and it could be seen in the hesitant and lingering steps that he truly wished to stay behind, but was not willing to contest the will of Legolas to do so. After a few moments he turned the corner, the last of his maroon colored robes trailing for a second after.

Then Legolas turned his gray eyes toward his father, resuming the watch he had taken up.

"Beautiful Agony," He whispered, fear in the breathless sound. "Agony or death..."

And all the while Thranduil continued to pace his lonely path. His mind turned inward and for him time wound backwards on itself as he fell into a waking slumber filled with memories of the past.

_'Beleg - beloved mentor. If only I had known then your bane. Could I have done something to stay fates hand or to spare you? Perhaps if I had known then...'_

* * *

><p>It came as a gift-tribute to the King of Doriath on his throne in the great Beech-Hall. It was one of two in all the world that would ever be.<p>

Standing at the Kings right side, behind the carven throne Thranduil silently watched the approach of an elf-lord clad all in black silk and velvet studded with polished stones of jet and obsidian, hematite and black diamonds, and trimmed with buckles and clasps of a dark steel the likes of which few had ever seen. Like a wraith he came into the midst of King Thingols beauty and light with a long silk-bound package in his hand, wrapped with golden threaded cords. Beleg at the foot of the Kings throne stepped forth in his role as Chief Marchwarden of Doriath and halted him, saying;

"None may approach the King with such craft in their hands."

And the dark elf replied. "So none may bear tribute to the King? Such an odd custom Menegroth holds."

"If you bear tribute then, bear it properly and remove your mantle." Beleg retorted. And the dark elf smirked.

"Gladly I would. But it appears my hands are full, if you would be so kind."

Checking his own haste, Beleg gently and respectfully lifted the dark velvet hood from the elfs head and laid it back, revealing him to the hall. Beneath the hood lie eyes of dark steely gray, dark as cold iron but alive and quick as a blade. For a moment the mist gray of Belegs own eyes met at close distance with the cold iron and a dread feeling overtook him, as if doom had been wrought at this meeting. Then Beleg stepped back. Eöl had a sudden inspiration. Through his own darkness he had gained a keen eye for the light. The token he bore would not heed his call - though he had wrought it with the work of his own hands. But perhaps someone else could bring it to life - if not turned by it instead.

"My Lord and King I come bearing glad tidings and the fruit of your grace, for this is what has been wrought in the lands you have allotted to me for my solitude."

And unwrapping the dark cloth he revealed a fine blade - as dark as night it reflected no light yet was ringed in a flame red glow at it's very edge.

"Wrought from star-iron and sharp enough to cleave any steel of this world. Anglachel is it called, a token to you of my goodwill for the lands given for my dominion."

Eöl bowed to his knee, holding the sword aloft with head lowered toward the King in supplication, for it was Beleg's task to give all tribute directly into the King's hands. And as Beleg grasped the sword a voice issued in his mind and such was his surprise that he nearly dropped it onto the dark-elfs head. Yet Eöl smiled and Beleg had little choice but to bear the sword to the King. All this from his immobile perch Thranduil saw, for he was one of the Kings ceremonial guard and as such he was to attend the kings side, silent and still and clad in shining true-silver. He could do nothing but remain as a statue. Beleg gave the gift to King Thingol and the King beheld it in wonder, as if the sword were speaking to his soul. At length Thingol stated;

"A masterful blade and well wrought of rare iron." Then as if torn at heart he made to speak more but hesitated. In that opening Eöl struck.

"Thank You my King. It is my hope that long will Anglachel protect your lands, for its only will is to lay low thine enemies o' King Thingol - the sole purpose for which it was made."

"A pity then it would be," Thingol spoke and a hint of wariness tinged his words, "if it lie in the treasury fast in it's sheath. Such a sword would not oblige that I suspect."

"I imagine not, your grace."

It was some time after this when great need came to the land. One fateful day Beleg came to the king to ask of him a favor. That favor was the possession of Anglachel. Melian, fair Maia and queen of Doriath advised against it - for she foresaw an ill fate for whoever owned such a dark blade. Yet Beleg was willing to risk the danger, for the sake of their peoples safety.

"So be it." Thingol decreed. "Then none better to wield this blade than my truest sword. As gift and sign of my faith I entrust to you, Beleg Cúthalion, the ownership of the blade Anglachel - to use in the warding of Doriath as long as you are able."

And Beleg knelt and took the blade and was thus doomed.

* * *

><p>'<em>Alas! Had I but known then the sorrow that blade would wreak I would have slain Eöl with it myself. And yet...'<em>

Thanduil raised a hand and trembling touched the wrought broach at his throat, a dark diamond set in branching arms of dark mithril. _'If I were to meet Eöl again even now I could not lay such an end upon him.'_

And the sun rose with a new day, yet his spirits did not rise with it. All the long night Legolas kept watch from a distance, lost in deep thoughts of his own.


	3. In Lothlorien

[ 3 ]

The morning dawned clear and cold. Thranduil found a kindled fire on the hearth as he entered his private study. Idhrenir had been busy, there was wood to spare as well as a kettle above the flickering flames which whistled as he crossed the threshold, filling the room with a clean crisp sound.

Soon Legolas stood at the door, waiting to be invited in - as per custom. Thranduil ignored him until he grew bored and entered of his own free will - as per custom. though today Thranduil had a bit of incentive on his side, for the morning meal had been delivered already and Legolas behind.

"I must say that this looks rather good this morning, it isn't often we find cakes and honey for our tea. Especially this time of year. And with fresh berries no less."

At this Thranduil turned his face toward the door, already having begun on his meal.

"Quite a treat, is it not?"

Legolas entered, his stomach winning out over his stubborn humor. But as he sat he found only one helping and looked up with dismay. His father seemed unhurried and continued to dine at his leisure.

"Ada? Have you forgotten there are to be two places in the morning?"

"No." The king mused, helping himself to yet another of the berries in front of him.

"But then, where is _my_ first meal?"

Thranduil gave only a small smile as he continued to eat. "Well, supposing I was particularly hungry this morning and my son running late; what would you say may have come to pass?"

Legolas scowled. But was saved for as he began to speak Idhrenir appeared behind.

"So my timing was correct then, I had a feeling you would be delayed this morning." And with a flourish sat a tray like to the kings in front of the prince who smiled up at his still stern appearing father.

"And I thought you were telling me you had eaten my share."

Thranduil's eyes opened in mock scandal. "Did I _say_ that? I merely suggested a potential explanation."

Legolas laughed, then noticed a notice on the table. "This is the letter from last night, you haven't opened it." He stated, handing it to the king who lamented the interruption of his meal. He had been finished in any case. Tearing the seal open he rose and read the message. Then his arm drooped with a heavy sigh.

"Such tidings so early in the morning. I should have let YOU read this first. My worst fear has come to pass..."

And concerned, Legolas rose and took the letter. It was written in a rough, but familiar hand and he read it aloud.

* * *

><p><em>To the Prince of the Great Greenwood, <em>

_ My apologies for being so late in my response, for the preparations have been most consuming to all in the hall. I'm very pleased to invite you - though keep it hush, the official invitation will be around in three weeks - to a great feast in Erebor thrown by King Thorin III. Your father and yourself, as well as any elves who care to appear are welcome to a winter event in our newly restored halls! Furthermore; though you did not hear this at all, especially not from me - invitations are going out to Dale as well! We hope to see the three kindreds of Dwarves, Elves and Men gathered together in merriment now that the world is rid of that great evil ( curse him ) - and I hope to show you what I have wrought of my gift from the fellowship for I have put all my skill into it! Again my dear friend you didn't hear this from me, keep it in your heart as close as treasure! To my personal friend, and dwarf-friend, Legolas Greenleaf of the Great Greenwood. _

_ Gimli, son of Gloin. _

* * *

><p>Legolas looked up at his father. "But this is joyful news!"<p>

"That my son is a 'dwarf-friend'? I think not!" Though his words were harsh his face showed no anger or great distress but instead a subtle mirth. "Because now I will be duty bound to accompany him to the halls of Erebor so that he may meet in celebration." He scowled. "And I will be thoroughly without kinship - as no doubt you will run along with your new friends!"

And at this the prince laughed, eyes shining. "Perhaps you'll enjoy the feast if you try!"

"I don't suppose you've seen Dwarves feast. Speak with Elrond, I'm sure he can enlighten you."

"I will when we get there." Legolas replied.

For on that very day the large part of their host was to begin the journey south to Lothlorien, the first journey in many such ages. They were to stay in the halls of Galadriel and Celeborn, lord and lady of the golden wood and there the House of Elrond would meet them - and hopefully in attendance would be his sons Elledan and Elrohir whom were now good friends to Legolas and his daughter Queen of Gondor the lady Arwen and also King Aragorn Elessar who of course would be joining his wife and reconnecting with his kin - for he was still kin to the house of Elrond and the Lord and Lady of Lothlorien by both marriage and blood and they would see them one last time ere they left for Valinor.

Many arrangements had been made and the trip was merry, for though not all evil had been removed from the world a great part of it had been scattered and destroyed so that they travelled in peace. They passed south on hidden paths with the King of the Greenwood, King Thranduil at their head upon his great stag, and at his side the crowned prince in fine raiment upon Arod who was clad in Grey of all hues to match his coat and as befitted such a noble horse. And the procession continued under both sun and moon, their banners drifted in gentle breezes and song lifted around them as they went. So they came and were welcomed into Lothlorien.

Much merriment did Thranduils people find there, and much knowledge as well - for few of them had strayed beyond their own borders and had little contact with elves outside their own kin. Yet in Lothlorien that week were gathered elves from many noble houses and Sindar, Silvan, Teleri, Vanyar, and Noldor were all represented within the golden wood for that short but glorious time. And men joined them as Aragorn welcomed his family. Many glad tidings were uttered, yet sadness still there was. For it had been decided by the bearers of the rings that they must sail soon, and by the end of that month they would be forever across the sea, never to be seen in Middle Earth again.

Arwen and Aragorn said their farewells to Elrond. And he in turn said his farewells to the child of his adoption and the three of his blood, for Elledan and Elrohir chose to remain. Galadriel spoke for long nights to her granddaughter about her lore and what she knew, that it might serve her well after the eldest had gone across the sea. And Celeborn and Thranduil spoke under the lights of Lothlorien and gazed at the stars, forgetting old rivalries - for they alone would stay a while longer. There Thranduil admitted his fears for his son, and his own hesitating heart.

"You must do what you deem best." Was all the council Celeborn could give. For he could not see what lie ahead. Yet Galadriel at length drew Thranduil aside and he followed her down the many steps and drew near to her mirror beneath the silent stars.

The sounds of mirth faded away into the sounds of the night. Galadriel floated before him as a white specter in the moonlight, her brow shining with silver and her hair glimmering like pale gold.

And at the well she grasped her pitcher and waited a while before she spoke.

"I have come to the end of my time in Middle Earth, as well you know. And the ban of the Valar has been lifted for me a second time; and this time I choose to return to Valinor. I will no longer be able to shape the history of this world - nor will I longer enjoy the privilege of my own realm. For though I am Galadriel, lady of Lothlorien in this realm; in the land of Valinor I am the last of Finarfins children in Middle Earth, for my brothers are all slain and now reside in the halls of Mandos, save Finrod who passed to my father.

But." And now she gave a soft smile. "Perhaps I can be of service, one last time. As you well know this is my mirror, which shows many things. And the mirror often shows what it will. Yet, it is my mirror. Tonight, I will show you what I myself have seen, so that the knowledge may not pass from this world with me."

Here she paused and grew stern. "Yet, it will cause you pain before the end comes to be. and may cost you great loss if all goes ill. Will you choose to look into the mirror, or step away?"

Thranduil approached the mirror. "I will choose to know, for there is no hope for the blind among danger."

And Galadriel approached, her robes shining with the light of the stars and the moon. High above the brightest star shone down and Eärendil gifted them with it's light. Galadriel lightly rested her hands on the side of the silver basin.

"Look. And behold what I have seen."

And Thranduil looked. Darkness and stars were above, but they gave way to gray mists. Then the mists cleared and he saw a vision from the depths that was faint, but grew ever clearer and brighter.

* * *

><p><em>He saw the edges of the pool wreathed in white flame and behind a bowman in the darkness. And before him flared a light more pure and bright than any other in the world - for it was a light that had long passed away. And a wall of scales rose up, shining like mithril and moved toward that light. An arrow black as night sped from a bow of silver.<em>

_Then, the bowman and the light vanished into darkness. _

* * *

><p>Thranduil knew the shape of the elf he saw, though his face was hidden. At length he spoke, the words failing him now and then.<p>

"And so he is...alive? Or shall come back to life? It cannot be, for Mandos gives none leave to exit his halls save by Iluvaters will!"

"Thranduil."

The calmness of her voice soothed him and he forsook his panic to hearken to her council. Lightly she took his hands, her deep blue eyes pierced the depths of his spirit.

"The past is a dark maze, take care where it leads you. Do not become so consumed by the thought of what you seek, that you overlook it when it appears and do not recognize it for what it is."

He did not understand, but held the words of Galadriel in his heart, the last council she ever gave him. But it was not the last council he received that night, for Elrond sought him out. Though the festival was bright it had not lifted the Lords face and it was as stern as it ever had been. But his eyes were troubled as he spoke alone with Thranduil. And in a hushed voice he said -

"Now I have a matter of utmost importance. But also of utmost secrecy, for if rumor of this should be heard then grief may befall those who remain in Middle Earth."

Here he paused and looked about him, as if fearful of prying ears and it was long before he spoke again. "Thranduil it is said that you were there in the battle of Five Armies, this much is true."

"It is, but it is many years past."

"Is it also true that a great stone was found and laid to rest with the fallen King of Erebor?" Elrond whispered, and the night seemed hushed and without sound, so that every noise echoed in their ears. And after looking about him, gray eyes trying to pierce the darkness Thranduil replied; "It is. And where have you heard this?"

"One of Bilbo's tales, one of many. One known now by many." Elrond looked around again. "Thranduil, you know of where the stone is placed? Have you seen it with your eyes?"

And Thranduil nodded, the memory of the Arkenstone seared into his mind - he had seen it's likeness before. And then cold fear came upon him and his eyes grew large and Elrond moved him to the side, fearful that he may fall. Thranduil whispered. "Yes. I know the stone of which you speak...I know it better than I had realized."

Elrond held his breath a moment, and then spoke. "Have you given thought to your fate? Of whether to fade or go across to Valinor? For time draws near and the boats now are few. And..." He added the last in a whisper. "You may not have time to fade, if these suspicious of mine be true. Or what I have seen."

"And what have you seen?" Thranduil asked, regaining his composure so that none may tell his concern from a distance. "What has your foresight revealed to you?"

"One I thought dead or lost. One who is well known to me and chief of my woe. And one...who would not take tales of a shining stone lightly."

"And this is your vision alone? Perhaps you are mistaken."

Elrond nodded solemnly and moved away. but he halted a moment longer and said. "So too did I think, yet I saw familiar face upon the road - though he did not see me." And Elrond looked upon Thranduil with concern. "In the time to come, be careful. Do not strive against that which you cannot hope to contend. For only death lies there. Some things in this world cannot be swayed, nor renounced, nor destroyed."

And speaking this he and Thranduil parted ways and Thranduil was much tormented by the secret knowledge and this torment only grew with time.


	4. Under the Moon

[ 4 ]

The chill of winter had settled over the land of the Great Greenwood and all was silent under the watch of a pale full moon - the first after the first snow of the year - even as Tilion guided it through the deep of the heavens with the steadfastness of his hands. Long had it been since the great forest had known such peace in winter, for now there were no fell beasts to disturb the hush of the star strewn nights nor the glistening white days approaching the winter festival. Yet despite the peace of the evening and the elder children's legendary love of Telperion's flower the woods were bereft of any of the elves - save one.

Long into the night the great king of the Greenwood had stood watch over the white forests with his gaze fixed upon the moon. Ever since it had crested the misty mountains to the east and began it's heavenly ascent he had been unable to pull his eyes from it's pure white light. Like a great diamond mirror in a field of crystal strewn velvet, sailing with the silence of a white owls flight in its slow voyage across the sky. It felt to Thranduil as if the moon stared at him in return, it's gaze peering towards Arda where he waited - it's will striving with his and locking him in an unwavering embrace. It was the silver flower, radiance of the eldest tree, first light of the sky.

Often had it snared him in such a way, compelling him to turn his face upwards in adoration of it as it watched over the night sky. Often he had hidden himself beneath the surface of the earth in dark caverns innumerable to avoid it's painful beauty. That night, he had been caught unawares.

And in the shadow of the door waited the young prince, who was almost as spellbound as his father, though the moon was not his focus. Instead his vision was filled with the sight of a great Elven King, ageless, yet ancient, staring into the night sky heedless of the frost and night - enraptured by the light of the full moon. Thranduil was tall, even in the reckoning of Elves, and strong with a presence that cowed any but the most forceful of will. In the light of the full winter moon his hair gleamed like polished mithril at his back, his robes of fine blue-violet velvet were of elvish make, crafted in the very city itself. In the light they shifted from one color to another and waves of color rippled with every slight movement. These were pulled around him in great deep folds crested with white, reminding one of lonely hills after the snow. Upon his head was a crown of silver that rose in tall smooth peaks like tapered candles, and each tip was lit with the unwavering golden light of magic flame that would not burn those who touched it - for it was winter and the red leaves and berries of autumn had faded away in the season of ice and snow. The kings face was upturned to the moon, and his son stared silently at his fathers back.

Legolas had left him in this very spot several hours ago and had only noticed him a second time in passing, having assumed that the king had retired to his quarters already. Yet there was no sign of movement in that moment or for many to come and the lord of the Greenwood gazed longingly and in silence.

His mind was turning backwards as the light filled all of his vision and his gray eyes came only to see the sheen of the silver flower - it's lustrous white petals outspread before him. He had seen such splendor before, yet magnified a thousandfold...yes...it had been centuries since last he had gazed on the wonder of all elven creation...their beautiful bane for which even brothers might murder one another...

It had been in the candlelit halls of Thingols realm of Doriath that he had first lain eyes on the wonder of the ancient world in all it's radiant splendor. In those earliest days of his youth he had been taken under the wing of Beleg who had aspirations that one day he may find a position for the young elf in his own command. The days spend in training had been a rapturous joy to Thranduil - yet his joy was doubled by his fathers approval. Life in Doriath could have been far harsher, for they were not completely out of reach of the Dark Lords tower - in fact many feared they were too close and that even a slight spread of his power my spread the Wasting Sickness into the heart of the capital - Menegroth.

Ah! Menegroth! The city of elves beneath the stone, hewn out of deep caverns and fortified beyond measure. Beautiful dwelling of the most beautiful of creations, and the most beautiful of all Iluvaters children to ever live. This Thranduil would attest to above all else.

For there while he was still just a young elf, not even a half century old, he had seen glory. In those days when Luthien had first lived he had known the beauty of her form and song, and later when she lived again he had seen her radiance restored in full - and more. For as he stood beside his father he among precious few watched the adorning of Luthien - Luthien Tinuviel of legend crowned with Nauglamir, set with the Silmaril.

The light of their realm was unrivaled in all the world and all who lived in the grace of the beautiful maiden, under the watchfulness of her silvery eyes, watching the ripple of her midnight tresses or the sweep of her snow-white arms, her throat shining with the light of Telperion itself.

Joy, beyond measure was his in those days...yet it could not last. Already it had been sullied with the bitter memory of his mentors death. Beleg, betrayed by one who loved him as a brother - though he did not know it until it was too late. Turin had never forgotten such pain as the one his hand wrought that night when he slew his dearest friend who had saved him - mistaking him for an enemy in the darkness. His lament; Laer cú Beleg, was mostly forgotten by the world...though not yet by Thranduil who remembered every note and line as if it were engraved upon his heart and so it would forever remain, for the black bow would sing no more...

Yes...his days had begun to darken with the death of his teacher Beleg...and they grew darker still. It was in those early days that his hatred of many things had been first kindled. Of strange elves - not of his kind. Of dwarves and their lust for treasure...and of terrible evil which no name could fully describe...and the black iron gates of Angband...and of the moon casting fire...

"Ada!"

Thranduil turned to see his son beside him, pale gray eyes shining with worry and fear - as if some sight had struck fear into his heart. The cold winter wind blew, Thranduil turned aside and his right hand moved to his face, remaining there until flesh had begun to cover the bone again. When the silence became unbearable Legolas spoke again, his voice betraying his deep concern - for he had never before seen the grievous wound his father hid so clearly and it had shaken him.

"Father...are you alright?"

Legolas' voice wavered with the uncertainty of a small child who has suddenly realized that the adults around them are not invincible and can be hurt. For a moment longer there was silence. Then at last Thranduil turned back towards his son, a kind light in his gray eyes, a soft smile on his beautiful face. And with a gentle hand he touched him on the cheek, brushing away a strand of gold.

"Laegolas. Le hannon."

"Losto mae." He whispered softly in return.

At this the king departed, walking up the wide step and back through his study which had long grown dark and cold as the hearth fire had burned out. He passed through into the hall and then toward his chambers even as Legolas stood on the terrace, troubled at heart. Thranduil retreated to his quarters, weary and concerned. He lay his crown down on its stand and himself on the velvet couch, for he intended to pass into the waking meditation that gave rest to the elves. But as he lay upon the couch a sudden darkness overcame his sight and the world faded and Thranduil passed into a deep and perilous sleep from which the coming of morning could not stir him.

* * *

><p>Le hannon. (S) I thank you.<p>

Losto mae. (S) Sleep well.


	5. Nan Elmoth

Ever since he had been young he had craved adventure. He wanted wide open spaces beneath the stars, to hear the rushing of seas he had never seen. And to test himself in strength and valor under the banner of his people against the dark forces that crept in the shadows.

Yet; he was tucked away behind the Girdle of Melian, whom none could pass unbidden. It was a very boring, but safe, life. Thranduil was still young then, so young that he was not permitted to join the ranks of the Marchwardens - for he had not the endurance or strength of arm yet. This made him sullen, for he greatly admired the Cheif of the Marchwardens, Beleg. Beleg was kind yet strong and though he was graced with the pale silver hair and eyes of his kindred it seemed to Thranduil as if he shone of some inner light. Often he was found at the Kings right hand, when he was not tracking through Doriaths' forests.

Thranduils father, Oropher, was made captain of the Kings home-guard and spent many nights securing the halls from within. Yet even this far safer position was denied to Thranduil on account of his few years - numbering only 25 winters and thus not even halfway to his maturity in the reconning of elves.

So often Thranduil would slip forth from Menegroth; taking secret ways to journey in the woods. His reason was twofold - that he may gain wisdom of the forest and thus be a far more likely candidate than any other elfling when the time came to add to the ranks of the Marchwardens, and to help calm his restless heart so that he may better present himself during the time spent inside the halls of Menegroth. Rarely did orcs enter even a step beyond the girdle so he was perfectly safe.

But on one such occasion he felt particularly bold - having been incensed by an indignity at court. He cared not for the intrigues and guile that often attended high places. Nor did he much account the comings and goings of the high born though it often be on the lips of many. And he was not yet subtle in his manner but rather direct, sometimes painfully so. As it was he had managed with his bluntness to incur the wrath of one of the courtiers, who instead of addressing it directly as Thranduil himself would have preferred instead went to the young elfs father and informed him of his sons 'excursions' beyond the palace gates. Oropher, now angered not just by his sons forays but by the knowledge that others had known what he himself had been blind to called his son forth.

"You have seen nothing beyond these sheltered woods, and so do not have any idea what you seek! And that this you hide even from your father but make it known to others only makes me look like a fool! And this is your love for your father?"

Thranduil countered. "You say I have no idea of the world beyond, but of course I do not! If I seek to join the Marchwardens then how can I do so without even knowing my own homeland? I was not allowed by your permission to set even a foot outside of Menegroth without company so how _can_ I know of the world?"

And Oropher spoke: "You were not then and are not now allowed outside of Menegroth. Perhaps when age comes it will bring you wisdom that you sorely lack. Then you will not take the will of your father so lightly."

Oropher would not hear the pleas of a captive youth and returned to his duties. At that moment Thranduil, instead of returning to his studies left the city of Menegroth and resolved to pass beyond the Girdle of Melian. As he was leaving, pretending to simply be returning to his quarters he happened to pass by the queen. Graceful and beautiful as light upon water, the Maia who had fallen in love and taken on flesh for the sake of her beloved. Teacher of the song of nightingales and weaver of powerful magic. Thranduil had shown deference and respect for the great lady as she passed, and hardly ever had she noticed him. Yet that day her eyes turned toward him, as if knowing what he meant to achieve. Yet she did not betray him and simply smiled a soft smile and made no move to hinder him.

To the southeast he went, having heard little word of danger from that quarter. For though he wanted to see the world he wasn't quite ready to leave it just yet, and he had no arms with which to defend himself. Long toil and travel it took to reach the edge of the girdled lands, and the sun loomed high in the sky above him, filtered by countless fresh green leaves that glinted in the noon light. At last at the edge he paused, uncertain. But memory of his fathers scornful words urged him on and he stepped through the hedge that he had remained within all his life.

Instantly the world bore down on him. It was as if sounds were warped and unfamiliar, as if the warmth of the sun was torn away and left light without heat. All the world was cold and lonely. And the smell of mortality hung in the air to heavy it began to make him dizzy. For he had always been sheltered within the Girdle of Melian, and thus had never felt the dark threads of evil that in his age had begun to strangle the world. All his life he had been embraced by the warmth of the ladies arms and now she had drawn them away and his very heart turned cold. Immediately he turned to go back, having done what he set out to do. Yet he could not find the way. All paths twisted and turned before him and though he had only taken a few steps beyond the barrier he was now hopelessly lost in ever darkening woods, alone and without protection.

It was nearing nightfall when he heard some noise that was not the hush of leaves or the chirp of birds. IT was a rustle in the near bushes. He thought it was an orc, come on him unawares. Yet even as he turned a blade was at his throat and holding it was a tall figure dressed in black with a cowl drawn over.

"And what business have you to trespass on my land?" A voice asked in the tongue of the realm, and Thranduil knew it was one of his kindred - a Sindarin who spoke to him.

"I am lost." He confessed, his throat dry from wandering. "I cannot find my way."

"Of course not." The elf replied with a hint of derision. "I laid these enchantments myself and no mere child could ever hope to undo them." He spoke calmly but the sword he did not lower. "Yet I asked a question of you - what are you doing in my land?"

And Thranduil, young and still naive, thought nothing of telling this stranger everything about himself. But this was fortunate and much to his credit. Thranduil told the elf a long tale and when he had finished he waited in silence and fear.

"A waif...of sorts. Well, waif, I am in no mood to travel further tonight. So I offer you two choices; you may either stay with me the night on the condition you make yourself useful or you may sleep under any tree you please till I decide to fetch you. Which shall it be?"

Now, Thranduil himself was proud and did not wish to suffer any indignity. He stood tall and sure, grey eyes unyielding. "If those be the only options left to me I shall stay here in the comfort of the wild rather than be at the mercy of a strangers wishes."

He had expected sharp words, for he judged the elf to be of quick temper. Yet he received laughter.

"Well met waif! But I will not be held accountable for what ill fate may befall you in these woods. So come, I doubt there is much work I could put you to in any case."

So Thranduil followed the strange elf to a small home of stone set into a rocky hillside deep in the forest. Only the homes front face could be seen for the rest was concealed beneath the mound. The young runaway noted that it was of odd make. It was lain out in strong sharp lines and looked rather like a dwarves respite than the home of an elf! And though Thranduil had no way of knowing it, the abode had been built by dwarves as a gift to one they greatly favored. The two elves issued in through the single door and beheld a home of geometric shapes that were hard, yet bore a strange flow and harmony that with one another that spoke of an elvish spirit. And the home was surprisingly open and did not feel stuffy or cramped. A fire burned in a recessed hearth and bright lanterns were lit all around.

Now Thranduil could see his host. A tall elf, slightly stooped. Yet he was noble if grim and his hair was a dark silver that shone like metal though his eyes were palest gray. But unlike any elf Thranduil had seen all of his garb was in midnight shades of red, green, blue trimmed in deepest black, all beautifully embroidered in the same style as the home. And he wore fine black armor that did not shine nor reflect any light but instead seemed to absorb all light that fell upon it and swallow it into nothingness.

The elf faced him. "My name is Eöl, a servant of the King Thingol who has agreed to allow me the stewardship of Nan Elmoth provided I guard it from evil."

Eöl looked upon the elf he had taken into his home and was more curious than he had been in a long time. For he was not a gracious sort who loved company and more often was prone to entrapping those who trespassed until weariness or the wild beasts in his realm caught them. But the boys story, of being trapped in someone else's walls with no will of his own had echoed something within him.

"You look no more than a scant 18 years under the moon. Why have you left the bounds of Melians Girdle? You were safe there."

"Too safe." Thranduil explained. "Like a caged bird! And I care not for the intrigue of the court - who is courting who, what others do behind closed doors or rumor from strange lands. They do not interest me in the slightest! yet that is all I am subjected to!"

Eöl in this time had taken a seat and was now listening intently to all the young elf said. "So you wished to get away from it then?"

"I want freedom." Thranduil spoke. "The rules of Menegroth are many. And the code of propriety is strict, for one must take care not to offend the 'wrong' person. An elf spends so much time pleasing others at the expense of increasing their own misery. Thus a sort of dishonesty begins."

All of this Eöl heard quietly. But at length he gave a small smile. "All this I know well - and why Nan Elmoth is my home. Rest now in blissful solitude, tomorrow you must go back."

He showed Thranduil to a spare room he kept for his few dwarven visitors and set for him a meal of wild game and carefully harvested roots from his own garden which Thranduil had never eaten before. "Dwarven food I'm afraid, though I am rather fond of it. It is no high fare of the Kings court. Hard to grow Elvish food on a lonely homestead. Elves to everything in such great numbers."

Thranduil laughed and ate happily. For a while they sat outside and watched the large full moon in silence. Then they rested.

The next morning Thranduil was well rested in body, though his mind was in turmoil. For he knew that his absence would be noted and that much effort had likely gone into searching for him. Oropher would be furious. He was quiet all the long return trip to Menegroth. At the gates the guards hailed him loudly in both surprise and joy - for many of them were fond of their captains son. Soon even Mablung and Beleg came to meet him and tell of how they had searched long for him and that even the king himself had worried over his fate.

"He himself turned out the guard to find you." Beleg explained. "Thranduil, where have you been all this night - surely you did not sleep in the trees beyond our borders; you were most certainly not in our lands."

"No. I was sheltered for the night." Thranduil confessed, and Eöl came forth - he had gone unnoticed until that moment. Beleg's glance was chilled, but he spoke no ill word.

"You watched over him for the night, and for that you are owed many thanks."

"I doubt I will receive them from his father." Eel replied. "But the boy was no trouble. But I have not made the long journey merely to return him to you, I would like an audience with his highness if he is able - the boys father is likely with the King even now in any case."

Beleg agreed and led the two through the many caverned halls into the deep of Menegroth and the elven kings throne-room where he spoke with Oropher. Oropher, upon seeing his son, spoke aloud: "Where have you been? We searched all the forest and could not find you!"

And Eöl answered, "With me. And with me he returns."

"Surely and gladly so." Mablung spoke, hoping to calm Oropher. But Oropher was still furious with his son and the heat of that fury was now also turned to Eöl.

"Thranduil o thankless child! Wandering off so that I think you for lost or dead! What spell have you fallen under to act this way? I know not what compelled you to such an act but I forbid you to repeat it!" And then upon Eöl he looked with loathing, and the thought that his son had fallen into such company grieved him greatly yet his words remained polite. "Thank you for the return of my errant son. But why are you now in the Kings hall? In this matter you have no further say."

Oropher made to move from the throne but was stayed by Thingols hand. "Stay your anger for a moment longer Oropher, and allow them the first word. It may yet calm you."

And so before the throne Thranduil gave an account of what had come to pass. And all the while he focused his sight on the King, for he did not dare to meet his fathers eyes. When he had finished Eöl testified to the truth of his story.

"And that is partly a matter for which I have requested an audience."

Thingol smiled from his throne. "Is it? Then do you want recompense for one night of lodging?"

"Indeed. I have opened up my home which is closed to all strangers out of consideration for a fellow subject of the king. There is some due owed."

And Thingol replied. "Of due owed I know much, for you still have not payed the due for the dominion of Nan Elmoth, Eöl. A due which you agreed to before your departure. Should the due for your hospitality then come from the due you owe for your freedom?"

"No. For the due owed to me will be paid in full by the boy himself."

And now Oropher did rise in fury and made to move toward Eöl. "Nothing will be paid to the dark elf of Nan Elmoth, much less anything from my son nor I!"

"Oropher;" The King called him. "Stay your wrath, for I will not command it a third time."

And Oropher fell into a bitter obedience, yet now Thingols face was calm and unreadable to all.

"What would you ask for, Eöl?"

The dark elf bowed, though it seemed much against his will. "I would ask in recompense that the boy aid me in my craft. Your due shall come from this joint work of ours, for I cannot complete it without assistance and the secrets of it I would rather not have known to the dwarves - for they will speak of it even if sworn not to; such is their love of the craft."

And Thingol spoke. "This can be done, but only if Thranduil is willing to the bargain. Hearing all that has been said today I think it most unwise to restrain him to the walls of the city - for he knows their passages too well to be contained by them any longer. Do you not agree, Oropher?"

To this Oropher had to assent. He had seen the growing unhappiness, yet had dismissed it as the restlessness of a child. "I will allow it if he chooses."

"Then what is your choice Thranduil, son of Oropher?"  
>And Thranduil spoke gladly, "I will go with Eöl and help in this task as I am indebted to him for my safekeeping."<p>

"So be it."

Thranduil knew his father disapproved, but this was the only way he could think of to avoid the labyrinth of life at court that he had grown to hate so very much. And the opportunity to see and hear new things, news from beyond the borders was too much to pass up.

It seemed a blur as they returned to Nan Elmoth. The days came and went beyond counting as he learned the craft of the smith and many small trinkets and weapons he made in those days under the watchful eye of his teacher. For it was not entirely as Eöl had spoken, as the dark elf had confessed when they entered his home again.

"I will not allow you to even touch my greatest work with those unskilled hands. I will teach you the lesser arts and those we will sell so that I may have what I need most - time - to work in peace."

"And so that is why you have requested me?" Thranduil wondered. And Eöl as he left for his shop spoke: "Yes, and no. If you disapprove then curse the nature of elves, that we feel loneliness."

Yet after that Eöl spoke of loneliness no more and they grew to understanding of one another in the long days and nights spent working side by side.

* * *

><p><strong>Authors Note:<strong>

The text is pretty vague on what Oropher and Thranduil were doing in Doriath during the First Age, so this is filling in gaps. For those who may have guessed it, yes, I did move Thranduils date of birth up from late first age to middle / early first age to fit the storyline. A year was never given so I just sort of ran with that. Oropher being head of Thingols palace guard is non-canon, neither is the meeting with Eol. Just in case anyone was wondering.


	6. Esgalduin

[ 6 ]

_The years turned in his mind. Lost in the deep reaches of his thought Thranduil knew somehow that he was ensnared in the tangled web of his memories. But his knowledge helped him little, and as the memories of Nan Elmoth faded away a new memory brightened in it's place, flickering like flame, 'till it filled all his mind with the flames of the past._

* * *

><p>Word came down to King Dior's men that the gates had been broken and that the enemy was upon them. And so he meant to go alone to his own destruction - for he knew that there would be no turning back the sons of Fëanor, nor any hope of defeating them. Yet, by facing them alone he may grant his people time to leave the doomed city before death befell them.<p>

But as he walked he heard footsteps behind him. For Thranduil, son of Oropher and captain of his royal guard followed.

"Turn away Thranduil and go with the others to secure an escape."

And Thranduil replied, "I will go where my King goes, as I did for his father before him. I will not abandon my post in the last hour while I may yet hold it."

Looking upon him Dior knew that there could be no dissuading him and so continued on his destined path. The others he ordered to care for the wellbeing of the Queen and his children. King Dior's midnight robes billowed with speed, sapphires flashing in the torchlight of the cavern city. He came at last to the Kings hall and there waited on his throne - to give his answer in person to the invaders at his door. For his answer was the same as his grandfathers before him to the dwarves that had killed him in anger to hear it - none should have the jewel; the token of Beren's great love for Luthien, fairest of all creation. None, least of all the blood-stained kin-slayers would King Dior of Doriath suffer to hold the precious stone that his father and his father before him had lain down their lives for - save for his own children, when they grew old enough to bear it's weight.

And yet he could not help but watch his captain of the home-guard beside him.

Thranduil bore the helm and the shield and sword of his rank proudly, his long pale golden hair trailing from beneath polished mithril. Dior was reminded of Mablung, who had died defending the treasury when the accursed dwarves of Nogrod had slain the King Thingol - one of the eldest of all elves and his beloved grandfather. His grandmother Melian had departed in grief afterwards, and the jewel once recovered by Beleg, who now also had passed, had gone to his mother and father on the Island of the Dead that Live until the days of their mortal lives were spent.

In all his years in the dark days of Arda Dior had known loss and suffering and pain. He had hoped to restore Doriath to it's glory, yet now felt deep in his heart that it was now the end.

For a long time there was silence as the two elves stood at the high seat, but then the approaching clamour of battle grew near until all the hall rung and clashed with the ringing of swords and armor. Then a loud banging began on the beech doors. Even so, the elven-king Dior held his place, face set with stony resolve. Thranduil stood before him, so that any enemy would have to match him before challenging his king.

The doors rocked and creaked on their brazen hinges. Wood groaned and then shattered, splintering with hollow echoes on the stone behind them. And they were thrown open and a formidable host entered into Thingols Hall of stone beneath the earth.

Two elven princes of the Ñoldor entered, both tall and dark of hair - and they were two of the sons of Fëanor. Their eyes glinted in the hall-light, Curufinwë's like moonstone and Caranthir's like garnet. These two approached the throne of Dior. And at this sight the King of Doriath; Dior Eluchil, son of Elwë-Thingol rose. Yet, it was not the end, for one more came through the door. Little so far had stirred the King Dior's anger so much as the sight of the fair haired elf with eyes the color of stormy seas - Celegorm who's ultimatum he had rebuffed to this bitter end.

Outside the door a host waited, for the brothers had wanted to meet with the King of Doriath alone. The silence weighed heavy in the room. The keenest ears could detect the howling of winter winds above grow quiet as if in anticipation of the doom that would shortly unfold. It was Dior who broke the silence. From his throne he asked aloud:

"Is it not enough that you have slain your own kin once before? Or has the lust driven you to madness beyond all reason? Perhaps you love nothing more than destruction and death - and if that is your desire than you would make more fitting princes of dark lands than of elves."

At these words Celegorm started, but was stilled by Curufinwë who stood behind. Yet Caranthir advanced with sword drawn and shining red in the torchlight of the kings hall.

"You blame us for this end, yet it was within your power to avoid it. We are driven no more mad by the Silmaril than you are, o' King of the dead! For you only had to return what was stolen from us to avert this doom. If elvish blood has been spilled in your halls it is for the sake of your greed alone!"

"Arrogant!" King Dior snapped, and now the rage of the full elf-lord could be seen - for he was mighty in his wrath as a child of Maiar, and Elves and Men. And his wrath shook the walls of Menegroth. "Arrogant and unfit to be called princes of Elves - Orcs alone are fit for your dominion! Step forth you lords of murder and I will send you Mandos, may he do with you as he will!"

And at this no words of his brothers could restrain him for Caranthir stepped forth with eyes blazing red as coals in his anger as he sought battle with the King. Yet Thranduil halted him with drawn sword that flashed so quickly that the blade had passed before Caranthir could see it; and he fell back with an echoing cry of pain even as his blood reddened the stones beneath him. Twice more Caranthir advanced and twice more was driven back. And before he could once more make and attempt his brothers reached out and seized him, drawing him from the fight against his will - for his fading strength had weakened him.

At the sight of his brothers blood Celegorm was stirred to high rage and he swept past Caranthir and Curufinwë to clash with Thranduil. Yet the force of his charge was such that Thranduil could only withstand two strikes, and on the third he was thrown aside and thus Dior clashed with the Feanorian. His spirit kindled by his brothers charge, Caranthir engaged as well and in a flurry of flashing steel the Elf-King Dior held his ground against two of the sons of Fëanor in their wrath. But Caranthir's wounds had already been great and with a last great thrust Diors sword ran through him and he fell and moved no more. His brothers death spurred Curufinwë into his own wrath and he joined the fight in his slain kin's stead. His own end came from a strike to his face that blinded him as Dior swung upwards before bringing the dread sword down. Thus Curufinwë fell beside his brother. Celegorm alone was left - in all the tales told it was a sad battle. For Celegorm the Fair, with pale golden hair shining in the light of the raging fires traded blows with Dior the Beautiful - and with a last mighty stroke mirrored by both the two scions of elven-kings fell in battle.

All this Thranduil saw from the step of the throne, for he could not tear his eyes away from the sight. His King now lay dead, his enemies slain around him. It was not until a hoarse, terrible cry from the shattered door echoed in the chamber that Thranduil was roused to the present once more. The din of battle had risen again and drawn near. Yet the battle did not strike fear into Thranduils heart so much as the sight before him now.

Fiery haired and tall, Maedhros, son of Fëanor, stood before him. His raiments of fine golden-hued cloth had been cut by Doriath blades, and stained with the blood of Doriaths elves. His eyes gleamed a pale blue-gray and were fixed upon the still bodies of three of his six brothers. Their blood covered the marble stones in great pools and spilled over into the river below the Kings bridge. And Dior lay silent, no longer able to tell of what he knew - of his brothers fate or that of the treasure they had died seeking.

And slowly, the eyes of Maedhros unclouded and began to rise until his sight fell on the young Captain sitting injured before the throne, and at the sight his eyes became as deadly and fierce as a dragons gaze - holding Thranduil still in terror even as he approached with his sword flashing like fire. And Thranduil knew not how he broke that spell, yet before he could think he fled through the back way with fleet feet quickly behind.

Young as he was, he had heard the rumour and tales that circulated through the halls of Menegroth in Thingols day; in the days when the Ñoldor had first come to middle earth. He had heard the whispers of Artanis in the night to Celeborn of the dread deeds that the sons of Fëanor had done in pursuit of the Silmarils, yet never had he imagined that he himself would become bound with the curse of the Ñoldor, nor that he would ever in his life be forced to flee in terror from elven-kindred without just cause. But such a thing had now come to pass as he ran through secret ways and dark halls issuing forth flames of war and the terrible noise of battle - always with footsteps in pursuit behind him. As he moved from the secret ways into the main hall a force struck him and he stumbled to the stone floors. Thinking it an enemy, he whirled with blade drawn only to find another also unsheathed - but to his joy the face behind it was familiar - for he had fallen into Artanis; noble daughter of Finarfin and princess of the High Elves. She was no longer clad in shining white raiment, but in the garb of a foot-soldier who had taken to arms - for though Thranduil knew it not she was also called Nerwen or 'man-maiden' by her mother and had passed through the danger of the Helcaraxë to set foot in Middle Earth and was accordingly valiant in battle.

"Ai! Thranduil! You were last seen with the King, where is he now?"

"Slain!" Thranduil replied and grabbed her by the hand to pull her forward, yet she was immovable and towered over him like a monolith. "He is dead - and with him three of the sons of Fëanor. A fourth is behind me even now!"

And the footsteps of doom hastened. From the corridor came a vision of red fury as Maedhros issued forth from the dark passages. He regarded Artanis only a moment, for he had seen her face before in Valinor, as she had been the only of the elf-women to speak during his fathers pleas.

"Daughter of Finarfin, against you I would raise no sword, daughter of my fathers brother. However; Dior's captain behind you has secret knowledge of the treasure of the Ñoldor. Hand him over to me!"

Cold fear crept into Thranduils heart, for he had never spoken of his feelings towards the white lady to her, nor any other. But he could not well endanger one he loved for the sake of his own life. So as Artanis began to speak words of defiance she was stilled by Thranduil.

"I cannot in good faith risk the life of one so fair the in the defence of my own. Yet I also cannot betray my King, and especially not to the kin of his slayers. I will not flee, yet I will not speak either."

With all his strength he gave her a great push behind him, sending her forward down the hall. Recovering herself, she prepared to throw herself back into the fray - even against her own cousin for the sake of a great friend.

But Thranduil blocked her way and cried out; "Your heart flees before you-" for he knew of her great fondness for her newly betrothed Celeborn. "Quickly! To the Green Door before he is lost to you forever!"

And at this Artanis turned and fled away in pursuit - yet she wept as she did so, for caught between love of Thranduil as one of her slain brothers, or the love of her beloved she could not help but choose the later for it was far more powerful to her.

And Thranduil knew this. For when Maedhros moved to pursue he found the captains blade bared toward him on the last bridge of Menegroth.

"You may not pass, for while I draw breath I will not allow you to pursue her."

And Maedhros' face grew yet more grim. "That is no matter, for my business is with you. I will ask but one question of you and your answer will determine mine. Where has the silmaril that Dior claimed gone to? In what place has it been hidden? Speak! For you are the captain of the royal guard and all such things are known to you."

And Thranduil hardened his resolve. "I will never tell one so stained with the blood of his kindred. Get ye from this city, warg! Go spread your desolation elsewhere for you shall not pass me!"

There they clashed on the high bridge above the underground river of the city. Thranduils sword was quick and keen; yet his opponent was of a calibre he had yet faced in the world and he was overwhelmed. Many wounds he received, yet seemed not to harm his foe and he grew weary and his movements slowed. With a great attack his sword was thrown and as he strove to keep his balance he felt the ice cold of the Ñoldor princes' blade in his side. This greatest wound at last drove him to his knees with its pain. Thranduil knew he could no longer hold the bridge, so as Maedhros prepared to bring down his sword the last captain of Doriath spoke secret spells of unravelling so that the bridge was broken asunder with both duelists still upon it, and they both fell into the torrent below.

The rivers of Doriath were swift and cold, yet it was not the doom of Maedhros to die in them. And after a while they came out into the light of day and the son of Fëanor moved to the shore, streaming water from his red hair behind him. For a time he sat in contemplation, but then a glint on the water caught his eye and he went forth to investigate. He passed to the south a little way and found there lying upon the shore the young elf who had sundered the bridge. And he was filled with rage at the sight and thought to slay him while he could, for he was furious and grieved by the loss of his three brothers and the failure to claim the silmaril.

"My vengeance for this will fall upon thee, for you are chiefly to blame for this woe!"

But as Maedhros stood above the elf, poised to pierce his throat with his sword he found he could not move to take his life. For below him the Sindarin elf with eyes closed, and deeply wounded was helpless. And in the light of day Maedhros could see the years upon him and knew that he was in the early spring of his ageless life and that many centuries awaited him upon Middle-Earth. And realizing that in his rage he had thought to kill a defenceless elf, little more than a child and blameless and without evil he stayed his sword, for he could not commit to such a horrible act.

And in grief Maedhros wandered away to reunite with the remainder of his kin, but Thranduil he left lying on the shore.

Some time later Thranduil awoke. After a long time he could move and slowly pulled himself through the darkening woods toward the shelter he knew. For the sun was going down and without the protection of it's people the hills would teem with fell beasts who would slay him without mercy. A long time he wandered until he came to Nan Elmoth and there to the house of Eöl long abandoned. And searching for the open way he entered the estate and collapsed and fell into a deep sleep.


	7. Gondolin in chains

_Doriath is destroyed, Beleg is dead. The King has been slain, his daughter has fled. The Princes' are lost, the Queen is as well. The daughter has fled, so rumor must tell to the harbor at the sea._

_And amidst it all Oropher his father, nor Artanis, nor Celborn, nor any others of the royal host has Thranduil seen for months now._

* * *

><p>His time in the abandoned house of Eöl has been quiet.<p>

Long ago the master of the house went away - to what fate Thranduil had yet to learn. And with the master gone the servants had left as well. So the house though built of stone in the manner of dwarves nonetheless needed repairs to be livable. In this Thranduil had busied himself, and in doing so he was able to dull the pain of his loss. For he believed himself the last lonely survivor of Menegroth; yet he did not dare to go beyond the borders of Nan Elmoth to seek out his Sindarin Kin. Most especially not with the increase in fell beasts, wargs, orcs, Feanorians and worse yet that that flooded into Doriath unhindered since the leaving of Melian and the fall of Dior.

The memory still burned in his mind, his king falling mortally wounded by Celegorm. And fire rose in his heart against the sons of Fëanor, chiefest of his enemies. He thought many times how King Thingol had been wise to set himself apart from them, though it had seemed without reason at first. But thought makes the heart heavy, so Thranduil turned to work instead. He did not hide in the shadows or dark of night, but lit the forges by day and hunted at dawn and dusk, and so for a long while he had a quiet peace and time to himself. In time he began to feel content with this lack of responsibility. It took a while for him to remember all that Eöl had taught him in his earliest days, but soon he well remembered the smith-craft and set to making many valuable and beautiful things. What he could not use he sold cheaply, for he still knew himself to be only a beginner - though a skilled one.

However; he had no relations with the dwarves. When they had seen the smoke from Eöl's forge they had assumed the master had returned after a long voyage and came expecting welcome. But shortly they were informed that Thranduil was now lord of Nan Elmoth and that if they valued their lives that their visit would be the last they ever made to those lands. He raised their ire and they raised their axes, but in the end were bested and hurriedly returned home with dire tidings to their kin. And after that they troubled Thranduil no more.

It is hard to say how long he remained in the small land. Yet soon word filtered to him that many of the survivors had passed into a hidden city in the mountains; where it lie no one knew with any certainty. But long did Thranduil tarry in Nan Elmoth even after learning this, for he knew he would miss the tall dark trees of the forest, the strange flowers that bloomed in the dark - blossoming with heady fragrances. He knew he would yearn for the quiet, the sounds of the ancient woods. But it grew on his heart that perhaps someone - anyone, had survived other than himself. Only by leaving could he know for sure.

So Thranduil prepared to leave. In the deep storerooms he found the set of old black armor that he had worn once long ago when he warded Nan Elmoth during the forging of Anglachel and Anguirel, light but strong. Also there was a bright mithril sword and a beautiful circlet of galvorn set with diamonds and sapphires in a delicate manner. And Thranduil took the brooch from his worn clothes; one he had made in his early youth under Eol's mentorship, and used it to close a long black wool cloak around him. And when he was made ready he closed up the house as securely as he could - for it may be long before he could return again. Yet, as he did so he caught his reflection in the mirror and started so badly that his sword was half-drawn ere he recognized himself. With a laugh he murmured,

"What a dangerous thing to encounter your own shadow!"

Now he took time to gaze over his form.

It had been some time since Menegroth and he had come to his full maturity now, reached for elven kin between 50 and 100 years. His hair had grown long and shone like palest gold over his shoulders, though a great deal was hidden under the dark cloak. His gray eyes were piercing and tinged with sorrow and old hurts yet unhealed. Yet; here he was now clothed in the garb of his unsullied youth - from a time when all things were new and wondrous.

With a heavy heart Thranduil left Nan Elmoth, unsure of when, or if he would ever return. It took many years of searching and rumor. He spent what time he had searching for clues as to where the remainder of Doriath had gone to - working as a bodyguard and courier to earn enough money for food and shelter at the far flung inns and taverns. Men he saw for the first time in large numbers and often worked alongside them, though it galled him to be reduced to such meniality. For in those days men lived in rude homes, rough and bare and devoid of the pleasures known to the elves - for their lives were short and hard and filled with sorrow.

It was only by fate that he stumbled upon the lone path that led to the hidden city. Issuing in past the encircling mountains Thranduil made his way into the wide plains. Years of stealth aided him as he crept unnoticed toward the shining citadel under the cover of nightfall. All he had heard of the hidden city had made him wary of contact with any of its citizens. He had no desire to never be heard of again, and longed to return to the deep safety of Nan Elmoth. But if he could find any survivors like himself it would ease his suffering immensely. With this desire in mind Thranduil found a way into the city itself. Through cunning he was able to pass three gates into Gondolin itself - but at the Gate of Writhen Iron loud cries went up and he was surrounded by a numerous host, for the guard of Gondolin took no trespass lightly and it was unheard of for any intruder to get so far. Immediately he was taken and locked in a cell. In the morning he would face the King of Gondolin and High King of the Ñoldor - for his entry into the city demanded both explanation as to how it was done as well as judgment on the punishment for such an unthinkable breech.

The next morning as the sun rose he was taken from his cool cell. Around him were several elves in shining armor so he made no threatening move, for he sensed that he was only an order away from death. And one stepped before him who was radiant to behold. That elf was clad in silver armor that glinted as if covered with the dust of diamonds. Yet; his hair was long and dark, though his face was fair and pale with eyes the color of the deep sky.

"You are the intruder?" He asked.

"I am your captive. So what now is to be done to me? What are your laws regarding this - for I only know that none who seek out the city return alive."

And the elf looked upon him and fell silent for a moment. "You are to be taken as you are before the king. That is a pity for you stranger, garbed as you are I do not think your reception will be warm."

"I am a trespasser in your eyes." Thranduil responded, bitter at his capture and at the ending of all his hopes. "My reception would have been cool regardless."

So it was that the bound elf was led to the Kings Hall.

Thranduil's eyes beheld the beauty of that legendary hall, with high pillars of white marble wrought over with silver and gold in many twining designs, and the tapestries of twelve houses hung from high vaulted ceilings. Many-hued light shone in through colored glass - each window fashioned into an image from the cities long history. Upon a high white throne sat a tall elf with long dark hair. He was clad in many layers of fine white silk bound with a golden belt and resting above his brow was a coronet of gold and garnets that gleamed in the morning sun.

"Ecthelion of the Fountain come forth," The king called. "For troubling news has reached me that you have a prisoner from outside our walls."

Ecthelion replied. "Yes, my King. We found him last night at the foot of the fourth gate - it seems he could find no way to breach it before he was caught. He is a strange elf and I have left it to him to tell his tale directly to you."

Beside the King in a crescent shape were twelve seats, each taken by a lord of one of the twelve houses of Gondolin. And Thranduil was led into the open space in their midst and held there by two guards, but Ecthelion took his own seat beneath the banner of the fountain.

Thranduil remained as silent as the stone hall. The host awaited the Kings first words. It was only after long thought that he spoke.

"Wayfarer. You have been brought here for judgment. I do not assume however that you know what you are being judged for, nor who is here presiding - for we do not easily allow news of our ways beyond our borders. I am named Turkáno; in the language here Turgon. The city you have entered is named Gondolin, and I am it's King. The twelve you see around you are the lords of my realm who are faithful to me, with them only will I take counsel today. Is there anything that I have said that is unclear to you?"

And Thranduil understood, yet a thought bothered him and he spoke.

"You have named yourself Turgon - yet another name you spoke before which was foreign to me and I do not know it's meaning."

Turgon nodded from his high seat. "The name given to me at my birth by my father Fingolfin was Turkáno; for in tongue of my forefathers it means powerful commander."

At this Thranduil's mood darkened and he spoke; "The tongue of your fathers I have not heard for more than a century for it was forbidden in the land of my birth - for it is the speech of the Ñoldor, for whom my King, Elwë-Thingol had little love."

And Turgon sat still in surprise. "Thingol? Then you are from Doriath then? And it pains me to hear that the Ñoldor hold no dear place in your heart - for among my titles is another: I am the High King of the Ñoldor here in the Middle Earth."

It seemed to Thranduil that all the pain of the long years came back, and though he tried to control himself the venom in his words was clear.

"Your pain is a pittance compared to mine, knowing I am in the company of kin to slayers of my people. For you speak of Doriath- yet do you know how it fell? It fell to Ñoldor blades - at the behest of the seven sons of Fëanor - another High King of the Ñoldor. In that assault I lost my King, his wife and children were slain and all my kin are now dead and my dear companions lost. I am the only one I know that remains - which is why I have come to your realm to search out any who may yet live. Now I know that none would abide here in the shadow of a Ñoldorin King. "

On his throne the King sat silent for a long time. Then he spoke again.

"You say that my pain is a pittance compared to yours, yet you do not know what I have suffered at the hands of the same elves who have tormented you. For I have crossed the frozen north, And I would not have crossed at all were it not for the doom lain upon all Ñoldor who first followed Fëanor in pursuit of the silmarils. Yet little was the love of Fëanor for Fingolfin who I followed - for he abandoned us to the cold wastes when he burned the ships that were to bear us across the wide seas. Many died in that crossing, and among them my wife though my daughter yet lives. It is said that some of the Ñoldor who crossed went into Thingols realm before his death and took residence in Menegroth. I know only of one, the daughter of Finarfin, my cousin Artanis."

And at this name Thranduil looked up in surprise and wonder. His body shook as hope rekindled itself.

"Artanis? You are close kin of such a fair maiden? Yes...I knew her in Menegroth in the days of my youth and there was her friend. I have missed her dearly since Doriaths fall and I know not where she or her husband Celeborn have gone. I only hope their fortunes have been happier than mine."

"They most assuredly are." Turgon spoke. "Yet to care for a Ñoldorin? Is that not a stretch for you?"

With this Thranduil felt ashamed, for it was true.

"I am sorry for my rash words, they were spoken out of sorrow."

And Turgon smiled for a brief moment at him. "Yes. Artanis is my cousin, and she has returned safely with her beloved to my keeping here. Whatever fate I may judge for you at least keep that as comfort. Now I have declared myself, so to shall my council declare themselves."

And at this the first elf to Thranduil left arose. Behind him was a banner of red, upon which was a black hammer. And the elf was tall and strong with hair the color of deep copper.

"I am Rog, of the House of the Hammer of Wrath - blacksmiths to the King."

And he sat and the next elf arose. Behind him was a banner of sable upon which was a silver harp. And the elf was short in stature with quick eyes and a sly smile.

"I am Salgant, of the House of the Harp - maker of beautiful songs for our King."

And as he sat he looked smugly upon the bound elf before them. Yet the elf next to him was the one who had brought Thranduil and in his eyes was empathy. Behind this elf was a banner of swirling water wrought in silver and diamonds on blue.

"You know my face, my name is Ecthelion of the House of the Fountain - guard of the fountains and the seventh gate of Gondolin."

And as he sat the elf next to him arose, and spared a smile at Ecthelion who returned it. This elf had hair the color of spun gold and the banner behind him was a green field bearing one golden flower.

"I am Glorfindel, of the House of the Golden Flower." Then he smiled. "Administrator of resources for Gondolin."

As he sat the one called Salgant gave a snort, yet Ecthelion halted any word the Lord of the Harp may have spoken with a glare as sharp as diamond.

The next rose and the banner behind him was a field of darkest green with a light tree in emerald upon it. He was lean but strong and clad in green. His hair was rich brown.

"I am Galdor, of the House of the Tree. Warden of all the green lands around Gondolin."

And the next rose under two banners held equal: one with a field of white upon which was a pale blue snowflake and a banner of palest blue upon which was a tower of white. This elf was tall and strong, yet possessed of a cool grace.

"I am Penlod, Lord of both the House of the Tower, and the House of the Snow - mine is the keeping of both lore and of the wealth of Gondolin."

When he had seated himself the next arose, and he was an elf of rather normal stature clad in robes with many colors. His hair was dark brown, yet his eyes seemed to shift colors with the light and dance from one hue to another. Behind him was a banner set with a glory of colors circled around an arrow in flight.

"I am Egalmoth, Lord of the House of the Heavenly Arch, and leader of the greater host of archers in Gondolin."

And at his seating the next elf arose under a banner of gold upon which was a fan of purple feathers. This elf was fair and thin with sharp eyes.

"I am Duilin, Lord of the House of the Swallow, the best of the archers of Gondolin."

And a look passed between him and Egalmoth, yet nothing came of it. And the next arose under a banner of black, unmarked. And at this Thranduil was surprised, for a banner sable un-blazoned was the mark of the Dark Lord himself. The elf that rose was clad in sable as dark as his hair, which gleamed like jet. Yet his eyes were dark as well and piercing.

"I am Maeglin, Lord of the House of the Mole, miner and forger of the riches of Gondolin."

And as he moved to take his seat the prisoner moved - much to the astonishment of all present. It was only by Ecthelion's speed that he was stayed.

"Maeglin?!" Thranduil called out in surprise. "Maeglin of Nan Elmoth?"

At these words Maeglin grew wary, freezing like a deer caught unawares. "Yes. And you?"

Thranduil struggled against Ecthelion's grip. "Maeglin! It is me - Thranduil! Or have you forgotten my face as well as my voice?"

And Turgon spoke to Thranduil. "You know of the Lord of the House of the Mole? How?"

Thranduil replied, "I knew him in Nan Elmoth! I was the one who brought his mother herbs from the forest and news from Menegroth! And when he was old enough I was the one who taught him the art of the sword and bow! It was I who warded Nan Elmoth when his father went away on long journeys to the dwarves! Have you forgotten all of this Maeglin?"

And Maeglin was silent, but Turgon turned to him and spoke; "Do you know the elf before us? Who has been brought here for judgment? Is he friend to you?"

To this Maeglin was again silent. So Turgon said; "I must know the answer to this, many times have you remained silent in council but I will not allow it this day. Speak what you know."

And Thranduil was relieved, for he thought himself soon to be relieved. Yet Maeglin gave a bitter smile.

"Yes. I know Thranduil." He whispered. "He is a dear friend of my father."

In the second the words slipped from Maeglins mouth Thranduil was thrown down upon his face in the kings hall and felt the tip of a sword at his neck. The hall was in uproar with countless angry voices all crying out at once so that they echoed from the vaulted ceiling. And Turgon raised his hand and silence fell.

Thranduil lay in shock and uncertainty, fearful of what was to come next. From his throne Turgon came.

"Lift him so that I may see his face, but do not allow him to stand yet for my judgment may be swift." And so Thranduil was held on his knees, with a sword to his throat lest he try to move again. And the King no longer looked upon him with pity but with wrath.

"Woe unto you unfortunate wretch that you claim allegiance with so dark an elf. Do you know what has become of your accomplice at least?"

And Thranduil said, "No. For these last hundred years I have searched for news of him but none has come. I thought...I thought that he and his kin were dead. Has he made it here?"

"He has indeed." Turgon admitted. "Though it should grieve you to know he is no more in the world of the living, not since he was thrown from the cities walls - as punishment for the killing of his wife in this very hall that you have entered into."

To this Thranduil was silent, his gray eyes wide yet unseeing as the grief of this loss weighed upon him. "I can say only this, that that must be a lie."

And the sword at his throat drew near, that it began to cut the skin. And Ecthelion growled at him; "You call our King a liar? That alone is worth death! Not the least coming from friend of one who murdered the Kings sister!"

Thranduil spoke. "The Kings sister? I knew not Aredhels lineage, only that she was much beloved of Eöl and that of his own free will he would never harm her."

"Her harm came out of love for her son." A voice responded from the last high seat. There, a strange elf with the web of mortality wound about him spoke. And he moved forward until Thranduil could see him, a mortal man he seemed - fair of hair with bright blue eyes.

"His mother leapt before the poisoned dart that was cast by Eöl at their son. And so poisoned she died. All this occurred long ago."

"And why would Eöl try to kill his son?" Thranduil asked. "What reason could a father have for such an act?"

Turgon answered, his voice cold as stone. "Maeglin did not wish to return to Nan Elmoth, and though I extended welcome to Eöl he did not take it. So he threw a poisoned dart at Maeglin and Aredhel my sister caught it with her own flesh and as a result died. And for this he was thrown from the wall of Gondolin to his death."

And Thranduil was silent a time, yet his anger came swiftly thereafter.

"Why did Maeglin not dodge, for he is an elf like any other." To Maeglin he spoke; "How is it that your mother had time to move yet you did not?"

Maeglin remained silent. Yet as he shifted Thranduil caught a glint at his side and knew the blades name which was belted there and grew vengeful.

"So he refused to leave Gondolin with his father. Yet you say the issue was moot - as none leave Gondolin but by leave of the King. Nay, I know now what wrath brought Eöl to Gondolin. For he loved his wife - yet not so much he would pursue her if she truly chose to leave. And I will confess there was no great love for his son and he would not miss him. Yet, at Maeglins side there is now a sword - that Eöl would go to the ends of the earth to retrieve."

Thranduil looked up at Turgon. "Look upon Maeglin - at his side lies the reason for your misery! The sword there is none other than Anguirel, mate of Anglachel which Eöl gave to King Thingol more than 200 years ago as payment for his freedom in Nan Elmoth! The twin of the sword that slew Glaurung and is now named Gurthang and lies shattered beneath the mound of Túrin Turambar!"

At this the host of lords murmured among themselves and Thranduil continued.

"One sword he gave up for his freedom, to be free of kings and bondage in Nan Elmoth. one he kept for himself. Yet you took by your decree both from him, o King. His sword and his freedom. And ultimately his life, though the grief of loosing his dearest would have killed him in time without your aid."

"Do not speak to me of his love for my sister, vagabond." Turgon snapped fiercely. "What proof of this love do you have?"

"In the satchel I have brought there is a gift which was meant for the white lady and was never given. I have brought it to give now, though it be too late."

And from the satchel Rog fetched the fine necklace and brought it before the king. And there wrought into it were all the things Aredhel had loved - nights in the forest, the flight of deer in the hunt, the cool of autumn the twinkling of stars. Wrought with moonstone and diamond and sapphire and set in a deep black metal the color of her hair.

At length Turgon spoke: "And where did this come from?"

Thranduil replied. "Eöl's forge, the last work of his hands. For he knew Aredhels heart was restless and sought to comfort her any way he could - for her son Maeglin urged her often to leave Nan Elmoth, even without his father."

"So it was by Maeglins' council that Aredhel returned?" The King asked, his eyes turning to the Lord of the House of the Mole who stood near the throne. And Maeglin spoke; "We wished to come to Gondolin to escape the dark woods."

"And of the sword, is this true that it was stolen from Eöl and as such is the main reason for his pursuit?"

And Maeglin spoke; "I know not if it was his reason for the pursuit, who could know his thoughts?"

At this Thranduil moved again, though not far for he was held fast by Ecthelion.

"How idly you stand for others - yet how industrious you work for yourself! I should have expected this from you, betrayer unto death! You stood idly while your mother died for you, you stood idly while your father was killed and now you stand idly while I await judgment! You were not moved to spare them so I must judge that you would be no more moved to spare an old friend!"

And to King Turgon Thranduil spoke: "I would not have conceived that a King so mighty would give an ear to the whisper of a fell serpent!"

"He is a Lord of Gondolin and it would be wise to give him appropriate respect! He is Lord of a mighty house whose great works defend the hall you have entered vagabond in black! And furthermore he is my kin - tell me why your council is preferable to his?"

And Thranduil grew silent, for now King Turgon would have his say. He circled the bound elf, his eyes filled with cold wrath.

"I, vagabond, have a decision to make. For the matter of your fate now concerns me. Do you know the laws of Gondolin? One; that none may enter the city unbidden. Where were you found?"

At Ecthelion's urging Thranduil answered. "By the fourth gate."

"Then you have entered my realm unbidden, this punishment is at my discretion. Gondolin is hidden for a reason. Do you not know the few leagues between our gates and the black one? Secrecy is our shield. Why have you come?"

"To seek my father. He is known as Oropher - chief of both Thingol and Dior's royal guard before Doriath fell."

This induced much murmuring. When it had faded Ecthelion at last spoke: "This name I know. For he is a rider in our march wardens. Loyal and steadfast, honorable and strong. A Sindarin elf with pale gray hair who came from Doriath some years ago." To Turgon he spoke, "My King, if this elf speaks the truth let it be told by Oropher."

"Call him then. But speak nothing to him of what has happened here, only tell him to come to the High hall. And as for the prisoner do not let him speak a word first."

And Turgon watched as Thranduil was pulled to his feet. Rog warded him while Ecthelion left to fetch Oropher. As he exited the tall doors Turgon stepped before Thranduil and looked upon him.

"Your fate, vagabond is on a knifes edge. If he fails to claim you, you will suffer the same fate as your mentor."

Thranduil shuddered, and kept his silence.

It was not long before Ecthelion returned. In that time Thranduils bonds had been released, so that Oropher may suspect nothing when he entered. Yet Rog stood at the ready for the slightest word from his King, for like all of the Lords - save Maeglin who remained silent - they did not believe his story, nor that any good was in his heart.

Oropher stepped into the chamber and in the moment he laid eyes upon Thranduil his mouth was agape. And heedless of the lords or his king he ran forward and drew his son into a tight embrace. "Thranduil - my son! I thought you were dead!"

"Father! I thought you were as well!"

And the two stood for a long time, their tears drying upon each others shoulders. And Oropher broke to hold his sons face in his hands.

"They...those who saw..they told me you died on the bridge. They said they saw-" And for a moment he could not speak, but then resumed; "Survivors said they saw Maedhros strike you on the bridge and that you collapsed it so that he could not pass. They told me you had died."

Thranduil nodded. "It is true that I was gravely wounded, yet how I survived I do not know. I woke on the banks of the Esgalduin and from there journeyed to Eöl's home."

And Oropher grew tense and once more noticed the lords around him.

"My King. Why is he here before the lords of Gondolin?"

"To stand in judgment for entering the city unbidden." Turgon spoke, standing tall and grave. "And to explain his relationship to Eöl."

At this Oropher paled and knelt before the king. "Forgive me my King! Do not take away my son from me - for I will go where he goes and I will not suffer to lose him again! It is true he knew Eöl from his youth, and from him learned to forge. Yet he was also under Beleg as a march-warden of Doriath, and under my tutelage as part of the Kings guard. He alone stood with King Dior when he was assailed by the sons of Fëanor and he has fought them himself for the defense of your cousin whom we knew as Artanis - the lady Galadriel. So my lord either spare him or release him; but I beg you do not kill him!"

And for a long while Turgon was silent. Then he knelt and lifted Oropher to his feet, and holding his shoulders he spoke, "You are as true to your son as he is to you. For he only risked this peril for the sake of finding you. So I will not have him slain out of consideration for your loyal service. Yet, I cannot also have him leave and betray the city."

To Thranduil he spoke. "It seems your story rings true, young elf. Your father has spoken for you. Will you stay peaceably in the city and abide by our rules for the rest of your days?"

Thranduil nodded, gray eyes shining in gratitude. "Yes, for my father is with me - no more could I ask for."

"So be it." Turgon spoke, and as the lords began to move he motioned to Maeglin.

"Lord of the House of the Mole. A word with you I ask, come here."

And Maeglin came down from his chair, anxious. Thranduils glare caught him and was returned, yet he was nearly simpering when Turgon spoke to him.

"You are my nephew and for that I hold you dear. You have been loyal and brave in battle at my side and have defended the city always. Yet; what Thranduil has said rings true. Though I have no love for the rightful owner, I cannot allow a Lord of Gondolin to remain a thief. The sword you will turn over to Thranduil - and I will not renegotiate it. This decision is final."

The last was said as Maeglin opened his mouth to speak. Instead he closed it in anger and removed the sword from his belt. He thought for a moment to draw it upon this bearer of woe who had come stalking in from Nan Elmoth yet he restrained himself.

Ecthelion removed his sword and re-sheathed it and drew back. And Thranduil took up the black sword. And though none could hear it, it echoed in his mind.

_Friend of my Father, Kind toward my creator, call me and I shall come at need - for ever I long for battle. _

And though Maeglin was bitter at the loss he was not altogether displeased. For a new sword of his own making was at his side soon after - a blade that did not mock him every time it was drawn.


	8. A War of Wrath and Ruin

_The years in Gondolin passed as if it were all a beautiful dream; yet even that dream turned into a nightmare. But the next memory that came clearly to Thranduils mind grew into a forest, and the cool dark reaches of Nan Elmoth revisited._

* * *

><p>It hadn't been so quiet in a long time. The past few years had been hard for Thranduil and Oropher. Yet; in the end of it all they had survived. Survived the sorrow, the death, the destruction. They had been forced to flee even Gondolin in the end, and sad rumour they heard of poor Sirion. But here in the deeps of Nan Elmoth they were removed from the wars of their world. Soon the roving orcs that now swarmed Beleriand as Morgoth asserted his unquestioned rule learned to avoid the ancient depths of Nan Elmoths forests. Those dark depths where unwary parties would disappear without trace. Some said a 'scorpion' had gotten them, others believed it to be the children of Ungoliant, and as there was nothing of value there the servants of Morgoth were glad to give it up without contest.<p>

Yet; there was now a great stirring in the world. As the long winter began to fade tidings of war began to rumble in the west near the sea; rumour of a great host that had at last reached the eastern shores. And while the two elves lurked in shadows they heard whispers among the dark servants of the Army of Aman turned out, and while the fell-beasts quivered with fear the news was met with trembling excitement by the pair. But in the end Thranduil thought little of it, no longer caring for the politics of the world so long as he could forge and live in peace. Oropher however seemed troubled and often stared into the sunset as if in great longing. And one day he spoke to his son:

"Long have we lingered here. Yet I feel now the shaking of the Powers, for they surely have come back to us now at he end of the age. And I hear the call of their horns which I once heard long ago beyond the sea...and I must answer."

Thranduil was grieved to hear this. He knew that his father had come from across the sea with Galadriel herself as part of her bodyguard, for though he had often hidden it from all who asked he himself was of the Teleri - and the only oath he had swore was one promising to see the lady of the house of Finarfin - for Galadriel was a daughter of the Teleri - to the far shore, and this he had done, at great grief to himself for the crimes that had been committed against his people.

Yet he spoke; "Did I not say that I would not have us parted again? So...if it is that you must answer this call, then I must follow you."

"Thank you my son...and I am sorry." Oropher spoke, for he felt deep in his heart that neither of them would return to the quiet woods of Nan Elmoth. For the last time they closed the stone house and bearing only their armour and what food they could carry they left for the west, toward the sound of marching horns headed north to where the great shadows lie, tracking through ominous forests as silent as wraiths.

And at the rivers shore where the Forest of Brethil and the Forest of Neldoreth met, to the north of the Esgalduin and west of fallen Menegroth; three days into their journey Thranduil and Oropher met the host of the Valar in their march to Anfauglith. And it was wondrous to behold, for Thranduil had never seen the shining silver-white armour decked tightly with silver and jewels and banners of fine dyed and heavily embroidered silk from the Undying Lands. And he beheld upon mighty horses the High Elven Kings; Ingwion - son of Ingwë and King of all Elves. At his side rode Finarfin, High King of the Noldor in Aman and father to Galadriel. Both were golden haired and proud and beautiful to behold, possessed of the easy grace of those who have ruled all of their long lives. They took no notice of the elves from the forest.

Long did Thranduil stand and stare at the host and he was overwhelmed - for he had never felt so lowly, _so common_ before such splendor. But Oropher moved at once as a familiar sight caught his eye - and he called out loudly;

"Oromë, Oromë hunter under starlight! Hear my voice and remember me!"

And a mighty rider on a white horse turned amid the host, golden hooves flashing toward them. The Vala cut swiftly through the crowd on his steed, towering over the smaller race as if they were children to him. His eyes burned with feirce light but his face was kind and lit with the light of Aman that was blinding to behold. Thranduil was aghast at his fathers brazenness - for he had never himself even heard the voice of a Vala, let alone had the gall to call one by name as if he were a close friend. And so he stood petrified by the trees as the holy one approached. Yet Oropher was filled with joy. Oromë spoke with a voice as pure as a light horn.

"I remember all elves whom I have heard but once, and know all their names once they have spoken them. But your face I do not recall; yet are you not Oropher?"

"Yes! I am Oropher who left long ago for the protection of Artanis, noble daughter of Finarfin!"

And Oromë lifted him up with gladness as if the elf were only a small child barely old enough to walk.

"Oropher! You've grown!" He laughed. "Have you come back to join us?"

"I have! And another with me, though I believe you've terrified him already." The elf laughed, and to Thranduils horror pointed him out. "My son is there, Thranduil - whom you have not yet met. His mother is of our Telerian Eastern kin"

Like all Valar Oromë was fond of elves and could not miss an opportunity to meet a new one. For no matter how many he met the experience was always a novel one. And so he dismounted from his fine horse and approached, but with the caution of one who is trying not to be too eager so as to scare away a skittish creature. It was a while before Thranduil could be coaxed out of the comfortable woods and into the open. Of course by this time the sight of a holy Vala attempting to sweetly pry a very skittish and young elf from the forest had gathered quite a bit of attention. The distraction was used as a temporary break ( much to the relief of their worn feet) and in that time Oropher was joined with Finarfin and there related to him tidings of his daughter.

"Come now, we have a war to fight! I cannot sit here all day!" Oromë stated at length. "Or perhaps we should simply leave you until we've finished giving Morgoth his due?"

And Thranduil knew that his father may just leave without him and the thought chilled him. For he did not know deep in his heart if his fathers love would be enough to keep him in Middle Earth for the sake of his son. Furthermore he had his own grudge against the dark lord and would not suffer to be known as a coward who ignored an opportunity to fight against him - especially at Oromë's behest.

Slowly he came from the dark woods and stood before the host. And so, Thranduil and his father joined with the host of the Valar. Yet; for all his wonder. Horror was to join it in his memories.

* * *

><p>From afar Thranduil espied his father, the shining helm of Oropher rising above the dark clouds of battle. His sword rang with a piercing sound of humming steel as it clove apart dark iron helms, breaking through the dark spells of malice along with the orcish skulls beneath. And the black blood of the orcs could not dispel the white light around the Elf-Lord in his wrath and among those who fell there were some that glimpsed the kingly stature in their dread foe that the wear of years would bring to fruition.<p>

Yet Thranduil was far from his father and for all Orophers bravery he could never hope to stem the tide alone. And so with sharp strokes of Anguirel the elf cut through the enemy in wide swaths. With each fell stroke his enemy was torn apart before him and where before his armour had been of dull black it now shone as polished stone with the slick blood of those he had slain. A strange tool in the mire caught his eye - a cruel looking weapon of rough but durable steel hooks connected by a thick chain. A weapon to snag and break rather than cut. A break in the battle came and Thranduil saw his chance. There was a massive wolf not far from him, it's bloody teeth gnawing through the throat of a golden haired Vanyar who could do little but clutch desperately at coarse fur until his head at last rolled away into the bloody mire. It was a wild, desperate thought that struck him - but what he needed now most was speed above all else running forward he grabbed up the strange weapon, the greasy blood-soaked grip dripping sickeningly in his hand as he ran towards the snarling beast. As he watched the wolf it turned to snap at yet another elf, deadly hunger in it's eyes. Thranduil struck, landing squarely on the wolfs back. With all of his strength he dug the strange weapon deep into the beasts neck just where it met the body - it's howls of anguish deafening in his ears. It reared with his weight, snapping and snarling with red foam as it sought to throw him, but the cold steel hooks it found twisted into it's back went deep on either side and with a great howl of rage and pain it raced off across the battlefield in a blind panic. Thranduil steered it with all his strength as it ran, the rough links bitting into his hands with every twist of the chain. The towering form of his father was his target, the elf's shining armour a beacon amid the darkness.

But on high a dark shadow swept down upon from on high, and glancing up the young elf knew true horror. For the heavens turned to starless black dripping with poison and malice and lined with sharp scales of iron. The sweep of the mighty wings stretched from one horizon to the other as the greatest dragon ever to live glided over the battle, it's unmoving wings forcing the air before it down with a crushing pressure that caused friend and foe alike to the ground.

Thranduil drove the wolf on harder, yet he had no need for the animal was terrified and fleeing in blind panic, driving hard toward the Black Gate of Angband. There was a blur as something large and dark flew past him but he ignored it and raced on. The wolf crested a mound and below was a deep slope into a trench. With a great lunge it leapt, Thranduil clinging desperately to it's back, face buried in reeking fur. He could only hope it's own sense of self-preservation would save them both.

Yet as they fell through air Thranduil turned his head to his right, eyes wide.

Balrogs were there, their fire leaping towards the black scaled heavens that loomed like a floating fortress above. But much nearer was a dark silhouette in the encircling fire. Taller than any elf, broad of shoulder and strong. Clad in armour of dark black iron of the finest calibre - the likes of which few outside of Aman had ever seen. In that glimpse Thranduil noted; oddly, that despite the chaos the figure stood without helm in the midst of deep fighting and his hair was of true-flame color that shimmered with light like a bon-fire even as the glow of the Balrogs radiance illuminated it. And for just a moment he turned just his head and Thranduil though he caught the faintest glimpse of golden eyes wreathed in flame.

Thranduils world became blurred by sudden pain that blackened his vision, his head pounding with an unbearable agony. Falling to his left he grasped tight onto his only lifeline - the chain in his hands and at the sudden pull the wolf missed it's aim with a horrific screech cut short as the hook imbedded in the right side of it's neck sliced through, severing vital arteries. The creature crashed to the earth and both steed and rider rolled along the ground. Thranduil at first didn't realize he had fallen, nor that he lie motionless in the thick of battle, for all that he had ever known or thought or felt had fallen into a dark abyss of agony and despair.

The heel of a steel shod boot jolted him from the blackness of his mind and back into the chaos of the fields before the black gate. In an instant the orc responsible was minus one limb and in another his head.

Thranduil was alive again, wonderfully, mercifully alive. Yet the thrill of realizing he had not woken in Mandos' halls were replaced by a more urgent exultation, he was now a short distance from his father. And seeing his son through the crush of striving steel Oropher let out a cry of fierce triumph. In moments Thranduil was at his side and there they began to wreak vengeance upon their foes - for if one was deadly in anger then two were an unstoppable Maelstrom of sharpened blades. Their dance created a swath around them as they wove around each other, always moving as if their minds were yoked together - two elves acting as one unified foe. The orcs cried out in dismay as the two opened a path back to their own forces. And the elves of Aman who saw hearkened to their cries for aid and swarmed in.

But a harsh wind like a hurricane slammed into the forces, sending dust swirling madly so that all had to close their eyes. There was the heavy sound of hardened scales striking tempered steel and a wave of elves were thrown back by the lash of a long serpentine tail. And Oropher was one of those, his body striking against the rocky wall to their rear. As he lie motionless several yards away a cry went up among the quendi of all houses and they raced in their retreat, Thranduil was jostled in the bodies of the fleeing but he of all looked back and saw those behind him wither in an unseen flame.

Quickly he ducked, covering his head as best he could with his armoured arms. A blast of heat engulfed him in a burning embrace, the smell of charred flesh and hot steel was forced by the hot dry wind into his gasping lungs. He heard the screams so eerily silenced in only moments and fell to his knees with the pressure of the blast. Pain came to him again as his face burned, even as he gave a cry he felt the left half of his face crackle into nothingness.

But the blast was then over, and he choked out gasp of anguish, hands held to the blacked skin.

**"Well now...and what is this? A strange thing to have happen."**

The voice echoed and thrummed with dark power and the air hung thick with malice and blight, as if they were under a pestilent fog sent only to suffocate and strangle all that breathed. Sulfur reeked in the air and combined with the stench of burned flesh, hair, bone, wood and leather to the point where Thranduil could feel the pang of pile in his throat - but was horrified of what damage it would do on already wounded flesh.

Trembling, he stood on quaking legs that threatened to buckle any moment. He faced his comrades who were ever increasing the distance, their eyes gazing high above his own head. And so he turned then and Thranduil beheld a sight terrible to behold. For a wall of thick silver scales met his vision, streaked with bright red blood of elves and deep black blood of orc. It was smeared with soot and mud and fouler things from the field of battle. And up the wall crept, arching high above him to a narrow muzzled head set almost delicately on the end of a long swan-like neck. Though this dred-swans mouth was ringed with teeth as long as spears and a menace was in it's moon-white eyes set in dark sockets.

The dragon laughed a thundering rumble, it's mocking lips pulled back to reveal it's fearsome teeth.

**"And what is this? An elf? Yet clad you bear no insignia of noble mark. No sign of your lineage. The elves whose corpses litter this field are clad in a monotony of mithril and steel...yet you bear an odd armour: sable, un-blazoned, and glittering with a dark light."**

This last the dragon purred over, and as it spread it's own malevolent miasma thicker Thranduil felt his armour quake and shiver in resonant response, yet Anguirel shivered and crackled with bloodlust in his hands, for dragonsblood it desired above all others. A throaty chuckled rippled through the air as Thranduil stared down the fell beast with what eye remained to him, for the other was burned shut. And it grinned at him once more.

**"Now I am curious, who are you? I do not remember seeing you in the Hells of Iron, yet you are nothing like these naive fools from Aman. Tell me, are you friend or foe?"**

Thranduil in his heart knew it was a trick of the enemy, for dragons are full of guile and subtlety. For this dragon knew he was not the same as his Elder kin, yet also knew he was no servant of the Dark Lord.

_It means to tempt me._ The thought ached suddenly in his chest. _For if I say no it will strike and kill me as a foe, but if I say yes I may yet be spared - but disgraced in front of my kin and branded traitor._

For it's part the dragon showed no hurry, no rush. For even the orcs that swarmed around it would not dare deprive a dragon of it's quarry.

**"I should not expect this to be a hard question, elf. Whom do you serve?"**

And Thranduil stood tall. "No one. I serve none but myself. No Lord of Aman nor Lord of Darkness do I owe allegiance to."

To this the dragon purred. **"No one to serve? No master? Such amusing thoughts you elves will entertain. For you are all nothing but slaves in the end, whether in Aman or Angband it makes no difference. You're all the same."**

And Thranduil brandished his sword, now screaming for dragonsblood in his furious grip. "I have no Lord, Dragon! And I am no slave!"

At this the dragon turned it's head and with a barking laugh it lowered it to peer closely at the impudent elf.

**"I suppose with such bold words you are no slave...not yet..."**

And at this Thranduils mind was swarmed with a darkness so great he felt as though he had been plunged into an eternal night devoid of dawn. His mind ached with the pressure of the dragons dark spell and through his head echoed it's mocking voice, echoing through the confines of his own consciousness. He could feel that sentience probing, prying for knowledge, for any weakness to exploit. And though Thranduil tried to shut his will against it the beast found chinks in the armor and with mockery in it's thoughts pried them wide open. Dredging his deepest and most personal memories for anything it could use to destroy him.

**So. Elf. What is your name?**

Thranduil tried to close his mind, tried to shield himself from the thoughts that tore through his brain.

**"No matter, I'll know in a moment."**

There was a shock of pain as the dragons mind delved deeper.

**"Thranduil...Elvish names are so...boring. I'll name you something better when I've had time to think. So tell me, Thranduil, where are you from?"**

And once again his will strove with the dragons. But each barrier he made was torn down, every defence raised shattered and every bulwark destroyed as the dragons will endlessly, relentlessly searched his mind as easily as if it were it's own.

**"Menegroth, thousand-caves. You like subterranean dwellings then?" It purred. "Perfect...I have an arrangement for you. Would you care to see it?"**

_"No! I will not -"_

But his mind suddenly beheld memories of dark volcanic stone polished into twisted and horrible forms, as if the living rock had been bent to some dark will. And though the shapes arched with beauty they were also echoing with despairing cries of the tortured and enslaved. A high domed hall he saw wreathed with chains glinting in pale torchlight from iron braziers. And a dark spiked throne raised above black polished floors in triumph.

**"I'll admit it has been a long while since I last saw the Nethermost Hall, I was a mere hatchling there all those centuries ago. Yet I hear it is no less splendid. I think you'll find the architecture quite to your liking."**

_"I will not go with you!"_

The dragon laughed with cruelty echoing in his mind in painful bellowing tones.** "I don't think that's up to you. But if courtesy won't avail me in this..."**

Thranduil's mind burned with fire, as if his very Fëar had been set alight with black devouring flame. All time seemed to slow to an agonizing crawl, every second an age. He began to loose every memory of light and joy he had ever known in this world of anguish. He could see his father slain, his kin dead. Everyone he loved scattered to the winds. He walked through dark stone halls teeming with orcs for centuries without end. And he knew what horrors awaited him there, burning whips, glinting blades, iron shackles; all wielded with cruelty and malice by a thousand ugly and twisted faces. Thranduil could no longer remember the sound of water, the taste of food, the feeling of wind, for he had always been here in darkness and despair had he not? He had always walked dark halls and obeyed the will of his master. It was so natural, it had always been this way. And he could hear always the voice of his master calling his name.

**"Thossë...who do you serve?"**

For a moment there was silence, the question confused him. He served who he always had.

_"I...serve my master."_

The dragon hummed with pleasure. "And who is that? Who is our great master?"

_"My master...he is..."_

Words failed him then as he strove to remember, who was his master? And a vision appeared to him of a power dark and terrible, and in that vision was a tall form clad in black iron, wearing a black crown upon his raven head, and his eyes burned...

"My master is -"

Sudden pain shocked him and he clutched at his left eye, already wounded from dragon-fire but now inflamed as if pierced with a knife. And as he fell again to his knees he heard a terrible roaring of agony and rage as the dragon spewed fire and black spells and hateful words.

A lance embedded in it's left eye it twisted and turned with echoing screams that rang from the very peaks of the Thangorodrim. And attached to that lance was a proud elf; golden hair flying as a banner in the wind as he drove the pole in deeper even as the beast thrashed. It was terrible to behold as the winged wyrm strove with the proud elf. Deep in the silver dragons chest sprouted a blossom of angry orange that began to glow like the light of an inferno as flames kindled deep in it's heart. Thranduil forgot his pain, forgot his sorrow and instead remembered his total and unabated rage - rage at being torn apart, his mind shredded as if it were no stronger than paper. Above all this was the rage of what this monster had almost made him swear against his own will...

Thranduil lunged forward, black sword flashing with malevolant glee. It practically leapt from his hands, he was merely being pulled along by it's intense will to sink deep into flesh and bone. Above him the dragon reared back, red heat radiating from it's belly as it prepared to loose a deadly blast of flame. Anguirel sparked as it clove through plated scales and hide alike, burrowing deep into the chest of it's foe. The crack of bone sounded loudly in Thranduils ears as he drove the sword in even to it's hilt. The flames erupted around the wound and the elf jumped free, his task completed. Staggering with flailing wings and twisting neck the dragon cried in bitter rage as the organs by which its fire was kindled burst and it began to burn within, flame and stinking poison blood pooling beneath it's stamping feet as it spun wildly. Oropher tried his best to hold fast but suddenly he was thrown with one powerful shake of the head and with it's freedom the dragon with pained roars fled to the sky.

**"CURSE YOU MISERABLE ELVES! I WILL SEE YOU ALL BURN! DOWN TO THE LAST! I WILL SHOW YOU THE MEANING OF PAIN!"**

Yet even as it cursed them it flew away with all haste to Angbands safety, leaving the field of battle far behind.

Oropher picked himself up from where he had fallen, his body aching and weak. Yet he stumbled over to his son who lie curled on the ground and quickly rolled him over; biting back bitter tears as he looked upon his mangled face. Thranduil shook - his one eye wild and searching, his breath tense and quick with panic. For the dreams of the dragon still held a powerful sway on him and had not yet entirely cleared - his act of valour being pure instinct alone.

"Thranduil...my son." Oropher wept, even as he chanted spells of healing.

The forces of Aman surrounded them. Bright clad warriors raced ahead even as they stood still amid the flood, like a solemn island amid a great river. And before too long the healers at the rear arrived to tend who could yet be saved. And Thranduil they took up with them - so the two were removed from the field of battle. In a haze, his mind still in tatters Thranduil barely recalled a great dark mountain falling from the heavens, the trembling of the earth as it struck. He heard in his ears the proud calls of eagles on the wing and the rallying cries of Elves in the tongue of Aman.

Yet...something was out of place. Amid the healing light was a voice not of the past. Slowly it spoke spells of soothing and peace to him and from the light a vision appeared of an old friend.

Celeborn smiled back at him. "Thranduil my friend...come back."

And Thranduil took his hand, his troubled eyes closed and he passed into a white light and for a moment knew nothing.

* * *

><p><span>Authors Note:<span>

Forever and a day. Holy heck. Work needs to give me more time to write fanfiction. Better yet, they need to pay me for it. ^.^

(will probably go back and re-spell check / edit this when it isn't 12:30 am.)

Authors note note: Yeah, I re-checked it at 01:00 am because I suddenly realized I'd left out something very VERY important to the plot. *facepalm* Now that's fixed.


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